


Warmth in the dark

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Sex, Angst & Humor, Backstory, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Drinking, F/M, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Parent-Child Relationship, Romance, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Porthos winks -- and jerks his chin at Treville. "*Tell* me, sir. What is it? I already know I drive you up a tree, and I am *exceedingly* happy about that, because *I've* spent the past eight months trying to get Athos to teach me the secret code words to make you fuck your subordinates."Treville opens his mouth --Closes it --Frowns and tries to -- "What...""Athos said there weren't any code words."Treville takes a breath."Then he got all thoughtful about it, though."
Relationships: Amina (OC)/de Tréville, Porthos/de Tréville
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Self-soothing is an important *set* of skills to develop for every well-adjusted adult.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demigodscum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigodscum/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: *weak laugh*
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Vague and AU-ized mentions of various things through S2, takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: The working title for this fic was "Self-Soothing." I mean, that's probably all the warning most of you need. On the other hand, it *is* also -- nearly -- the fic I'd been *trying* to write for three years, since a throwaway line I put in [Hidden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685298/chapters/23661345) sparked my imagination. So... respectability? Excuse? Enh...?
> 
> Acknowledgments: My forever love and undying gratitude to demigodscum, Spice, and, of course, my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, nitpicking, grammar imperialism, thrown objects, and laughing big. <3

This -- is not what Treville should be doing. 

Not by any stretch of the human, inhuman, undead, demonic, or deified imagination -- 

The All-Mother -- always aware of an excellent cue -- tugs on Treville's spirit lightly *while* filling him with warm, loving, and *terrifically* inconvenient arousal -- 

To go along with all the other arousal -- 

Said arousal being, of course, why he's here, on the walk, ostensibly looking over the men, but really waiting for the eye of -- 

And Porthos du Vallon does not disappoint -- he has not disappointed Treville once since the day of his initial *interview*. He looks up -- 

He smiles that broad, brilliant, *stunning* smile -- 

Treville does his level best to keep the *entirety* of his intellect from migrating south -- but he doesn't stop himself from gesturing Porthos *up*. 

To him. 

To *him*. 

Right here, right now -- 

And it doesn't have to be anything -- 

It *won't* be anything more than a discussion, a moment to check on the man who *will* have his commission soon -- within the next few weeks if he has to light an *actual* fire under Louis -- no. 

No. He is the Captain, now. 

He's a well-behaved *courtier* of a soldier -- look how nicely he's shutting himself up in this little box! -- who never does *anything* *like* soothe himself by dreaming of barbecuing royalty. 

Treville sighs as he sits behind his desk -- 

Tries to call up the imagined scents -- 

How terrible *would* Louis's pomade be when it caught flame? There's some sort of fruit in there -- could it, perhaps, act as a *glaze*?

The dog within Treville wants Treville to know that he eats far too much of his meat cooked. 

The dog within Treville is entirely correct, *but* -- 

Treville shares the scents of all Louis's perfumes and silks and flower-waters and what-not. 

The dog sneezes within him -- and agrees that cooking would be better. 

After a good, thorough ducking in a fast-flowing river. 

Treville inclines his head good-naturedly -- and there are those fast, eager, *cheerful* footsteps on the walk -- 

And not even thoughts of regicide and cannibalism can distract the large -- very large -- fraction of his mind which is focused on *detailing* the number of ways Treville has not, yet, desecrated this office. 

Still -- "Get in here, Porthos!" There, that probably didn't sound *too* much like a heartfelt request for the man to strip and bend over -- 

Fuck, he's not going to *do* this -- 

He's not. 

He won't -- 

"Yes, *sir*!" And Porthos is -- right there, smiling at him -- 

Bringing all of those wonderful, maddening, *drugging* scents -- 

*Fuck* -- 

"Close the door, son," Treville says, and smiles --

Well, judging by Porthos's *answering* smile, Treville's own smile is, perhaps, a bit warmer than the *Captain's* should be -- 

No, no. He doesn't have to be a *bastard*. 

*Laurent* wasn't a bastard --

"Have a seat," Treville says, and gestures to the chair in front of the desk. 

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, pulling the chair up *closer* to the desk -- the way literally *no* one else ever does -- before sitting down -- 

Bringing his *scents* closer -- 

His *presence* -- 

*Fuck*. Porthos, Treville does not say, I would like to shift into the dog, follow you home, and lick your bollocks until you're stupid enough to let me mount you.

The dog calls him a coward -- 

"-- up, sir? Was there something --" 

Treville clears his *throat* -- and stops staring. With an effort. "Son, I... how are you doing?" There, that was a reasonable start -- 

Porthos blinks. "Well, um. I *think* I'm doing *well*, sir. I... do you *not* think..." 

Oh fuck -- Treville holds up a hand. "Easy, son. The *only* reason you do not *already* have your commission is because Louis -- long may he reign -- is a dithery little ponce with more interest in the latest court *fashions* than in anything resembling the safety and future of our *nation*. Do you *understand*." 

Porthos's jaw *drops* -- 

He blinks -- 

He *beams* -- "*Yes*, sir! I mean -- I -- *thank* you, sir --" 

"Shh. You've grown into a brilliant soldier by *any* measure *and*, from everything *I've* seen, you're a wonderful young man. That much was clear months ago -- or I wouldn't have let you start riding with the other men." 

"And uh. Definitely not with Athos, yeah?" And Porthos raises his eyebrows -- 

Dips his chin -- 

Treville hums. "Son. *I* knew you'd be riding with Athos about *five* minutes into your initial interview --" 

"*Oh* -- shit --" 

"Exactly. As I *told* Athos about a week *after* that?" 

"Uh... yeah?" 

Treville leans back in his chair and throws his feet up on the desk -- "I told him that I *planned* to have you riding with him -- and that I *vastly* approved of everything you were *both* doing to make it happen as quickly as possible." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "He was... right from the beginning, Athos was the best teacher I'd ever had for *anything*." 

"He's a wonderful boy." 

"He always says that *you* gave *him* the lion's share of his teaching, sir." 

Treville wags his head a little -- 

*Resists* the urge to flare his nostrils to get more of Porthos's scents -- 

He's farther *away* from him now -- 

"You don't think so, sir?" 

"I *think*... that his mother Marie-Angelique was a brilliant woman -- a brilliant *person* -- in more ways than *most* people can *count*. She taught Athos *and* his younger brother Thomas far, far more than *any* of us -- their father, their Uncles, or me, their godfather -- put together."

Another thoughtful nod -- and a warm smile that does horrible things to Treville's equilibrium. "I like that," Porthos says, in a *soft* voice. 

"What's that, son...?"

"The way you talk about Athos's mum, and -- uh. Well, I've heard you talk about other women, here and there. You always..." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos ducks his head and *blushes* -- 

Porthos, Treville does not ask, how do you feel about sitting on the laps of older, smaller, but still reasonably athletic men?

The dog scoffs. 

Treville explains to the dog that he'd be close enough to sniff, lick, *and* bite. 

The dog points out -- quite rightly -- that none of those reasons are why Treville wants it. 

Hold that thought, dog. Treville *focuses* on his inexplicably shy subordinate. "What is it, son? What's got you feeling so --" 

"'s just -- uh. You *see* women, sir," Porthos says, and looks up into Treville's eyes. His eyes are wide, and dark, and soft, and *earnest* -- 

His eyes are *beautiful* -- 

Treville is going to focus if it *kills* him, but -- 

"See them how?" 

"You -- they're not -- they're not just some odd other *species* to you, you know? They're people, just like anyone else, and -- you know them. I bet Athos's Mum was your *sister* the way Athos's Dad was your *brother*. I -- was she?"

Oh -- Treville grins helplessly. "She was, son. She was *our* sister. Our *love*." 

"Oh -- yeah? I mean, Athos has said a little... but... you know..." 

Treville inclines his head. "He's grieving. He's... well. He was a quiet boy who grew into a quiet young man. I was frankly *terrified* that the grief of losing his parents would make him grow into a *silent* adult, no matter *what* Thomas did to drag him out of it, but... you've helped a great, great deal with that." 

"Oh -- no --" 

"*Yes*, son. Never sell yourself short for any reason -- but especially not for this. You've brought my Athos a very long way out of his darkness and pain, and for that you will *always* have my gratitude." 

"*Sir* --" 

Treville holds up a hand. "I know. It's the last thing you want of me. Right?"

"*Yes*, sir -- I -- you don't owe me *anything* --" 

"Wait, son. Just wait," Treville says, swinging his legs back down and leaning forward on the desk a little. "Try a little exercise with me, mm?" 

"I -- oh. Yes, sir, I'm listening," Porthos says, nodding and focused so perfectly -- 

So -- 

Treville doesn't flare his *nostrils* --

"All right. We both know you're a young man who grew up taking *care* of a lot of people. People your own age... and people who were maybe a lot younger. Whether or not they were a lot younger in actual *years*," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks -- "I -- yes, sir, I did."

Treville nods. "So. You're taking care of a young one. They mean the world to you. They're *yours*, even though you had no hand in bringing them into the world. Maybe the people who *did* bring them into the world... well, they're not there right now. Right?" 

"No, sir, they -- they're not --" 

"It doesn't mean they were bad people. They just... can't be, for one reason or several." 

"Yes, sir, I -- right --" 

"So this little one you're taking care of -- they have *you* now. You're maybe the *only* one taking care of them. The only one in this wide, cruel *bastard* of a world --" 

"Yes -- *yes* -- I mean -- uh. Sorry, sir --" 

"Shh, it's all right, son. Just a little more." 

"Yes, sir. I'll listen," Porthos says, and nods. 

"Good boy. Here it is: This little one... they're all yours, and you *realize* that. You realize that and it burns you, deep inside. It's a fire in your heart like *nothing* else, and you realize that a part of you was *waiting* to be responsible for a little one --" 

"Oh --" 

"And? You've *long* since realized that anything -- anything or *anyone* at all -- that makes life easier and better and *brighter* for your little one --" 

"Is -- is bloody wonderful. Perfect. *Necessary*." 

Treville hums and spreads his hands. 

Porthos grunts -- 

Blinks rapidly -- 

Blushes like *fire* under that beautiful brown skin -- "Sir..." 

"I know, son. I know. You weren't really expecting *this* when I called you up here today --" 

"No, I -- I mean -- it's -- uh..." If anything, that blush gets even more fiery -- 

And Porthos's scents are wild, bright, *thrilled* -- 

His heart is *pounding* -- 

He's *sweating* -- 

"Sir?"

"Mm?"

"Do you... smell something?"

*Shit* -- 

"I mean, I'm *guessing* I'm pretty rank right now --" 

"We're *soldiers*, son. If you smelled like a bloody rose garden after I'd left you alone to train for hours, I'd boot you out on your *arse*." 

"Too *right*, sir, but that's just it, you're flaring your nostrils like you smell something *odd*." 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck -- 

The dog gives Treville an extremely *pointed* look -- 

Bloody *fine*. 

Treville takes a deep -- heavenly -- 

Mouth-watering -- 

Cock-thickening -- 

Breath. And then he smiles *precisely* the way he wants to. 

"Uh. Sir?"

"You smell bloody wonderful, son. That's all." 

Porthos stares at him for a bit after that, *very* obviously putting scattered thoughts together. 

Treville thinks -- very hard -- about making it difficult for him to do that. About *distracting* him -- 

The dog promises -- not threatens -- to *force* Treville to shift the next time he's addressing Louis, at which point he will piss all over the dais and mount the queen. 

Would you at least savage Louis?

The dog promises to leave Louis entirely unmolested.

Treville keeps his gob shut -- 

And Porthos licks his lips. "So uh." 

"Yes, son?" 

"It's... Athos *did* mention that you... I mean, I came up around witches, sir. I um. I know that you're a shifter. And -- and a dog." 

Treville lolls his tongue, precisely like the arsehole he is -- 

Porthos *coughs* a laugh -- 

Treville puts his tongue away and laughs quietly, raising a hand. "I'm... hm. I'm not about to leap over the desk and cover your face with doggy saliva, son. But... I'd like to be more honest with you." 

"The way you are with -- with Athos. And Thomas." 

Treville inclines his head. 

Porthos nods, pulling on a serious and stout-hearted face -- 

Treville raises an eyebrow very, very slowly indeed...

And Porthos's laughter is breathless and explosive. "No, I -- all right, I'm not going to pretend that I'm not --" He grins broadly and shakes his head. "Sir, you're the man I admire most in the *world*. Of *course* I'm stunned over here. You -- you want to be... closer. To me." 

Treville closes his eyes -- 

Breathes -- 

*Breathes* and tries to get past his needy *cock* -- 

"Sir...?" 

Treville *opens* his eyes -- and smiles wryly. "Nothing you're not comfortable with, son. Nothing --" He shakes his head. "Listen -- everything I've learned about you, everything I've gleaned from our moments of conversation, everything I've teased away from conversations *about* you with Athos and the other men --" 

"Oh --" 

"I admire *you*, son. I..." 

The dog is *glaring* at him -- 

And Treville will not shut his teeth on this. "There is not one thing about you that would make you *anything* but a man I -- *and* my brothers, and my *sisters* -- would've done everything in our *power* to make a part of my *pack*, once upon a time." 

"Oh -- oh." 

"But, more than anything else, I need you to be *comfortable* with me, son. If you need me to stop talking about this, or to stop speaking with you in this *way* --" 

"No, don't! Uh -- I..."

"Son?" 

"I want. Um. I want to... know more," Porthos says, and he's blushing again. "I've always... wanted to know more about you." 

There is no part of him which can't *taste* the honesty in that. It -- "You'll have that, son. You..." Treville growls and gives himself a shake. 

"Sir?" 

"*Reminding* myself that it's too early in the day to pull out the brandy and get us both disgustingly drunk." 

"You don't think that's quitter talk, sir?" And Porthos's expression is wide-eyed, earnest, *serious* --

He holds it -- 

He *holds* it -- 

Treville raises *both* eyebrows *painfully* slowly -- 

And Porthos snickers like a boy. "*Fuck*, sir, I *almost* managed to keep a straight face." 

"Son, you wouldn't be *half* so perfect a partner for *Athos* if you *could* keep a straight face," Treville says, and damned well pulls out the bottle of brandy. 

*And* the glasses, because it's only barely not *morning* --

And he's the Captain, and a responsible person, and -- 

"Right, sir, right. Balance, and all that," Porthos says, and pooches his face up like some old worthy holding court in a teahouse. 

Treville snorts. "That's *right*, son," he says, and pours. "Now hurry up and drink before I remember why I shouldn't be -- there you are," Treville says, tossing back his own and pouring for them again -- 

"Mm, I -- are you going to let me taste this --"

"Why aren't you drinking, son?" 

Porthos splutters and tosses his brandy *right* back -- 

Treville grins and follows suit -- 

And pours -- 

"I think I could smell that one, sir. It's really --" 

"*Drink*."

Porthos wheezes a laugh and tosses his drink back -- 

Treville hums and follows *suit* -- 

Hums -- 

Licks his *lips* -- 

And pours. 

"Oh fuck --" 

"You're allowed to sip this one, son." 

"Are you *sure* about that, sir. I mean, I wouldn't want to get in the way of your alcoholism --"

"Unless you mouth *off*." 

"Shit --" 

"*Drink*." 

Porthos tosses his brandy back *while* laughing -- somehow -- 

"Are you wasting that...?" 

Porthos coughs and... salutes him. 

Vigorously. 

Treville lolls his tongue -- but only for a moment before tossing his brandy back. 

The dog in him rolls over and shows his belly, because the dog is a lightweight. 

The dog tells him to drink until he's a nicer person. 

Right you are, Treville says, and pours -- 

"Oh -- God --" 

"You should get better oaths, son..." 

"I -- what?" 

"Mm. You really can sip that one --" 

"*Thank* you, but --" 

"I'm an earth-mage. And? So are *you*," Treville says, and *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos doesn't even blink. "Oh -- well, yeah. But, you know, not much of one. The witches who took care of me after my Mum died always thought I'd, you know, grow *into* more power than I did, but it never happened," he says, and shrugs. 

"These things can be difficult to predict -- and you never know where you're going to wind up just going from where you *start*." 

"No, sir?" 

"No," Treville says, and sips -- 

And remembers... Amina. 

He smiles wryly. "I was a weak enough mage, once upon a time, that I had to be told that I *was* a mage." 

"Oh -- *really*?" 

"Mm-hm. Any *number* of things happened after that to change me into *this*... well, it's a long story. I'll tell you one day." 

"You don't have to --" 

"Will you be my pack, son...?" 

Porthos stares into Treville's eyes -- 

Stares *deeply* into Treville's eyes, and gives Treville his want, his hunger, his hope, his need, his surprise and thrill and *desire* -- 

"Son..." 

"I. I want. I want to be your pack, sir. I -- please." 

"Shh. You never have to beg for that. It's yours. It's *all* yours." 

"Oh --" 

"But -- I was saying," Treville says, and sips -- 

Hums -- 

"We're earth-mages, son. The *Christian* god has literally fuck-all to do with us." 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos *looks* at him. 

That... "You are, perhaps, thinking of the lessons --" 

"Torture." 

"-- that I made you sit through in basic --" 

"*Torture*." 

"-- torture, otherwise known as Catholicism --" 

"*Yes*, sir," Porthos says, and tosses back his brandy -- "Aw, shit, I didn't mean to *do* that --" 

Treville snickers and tosses back his own -- 

And pours -- 

Porthos whines *inspiringly* -- 

"But -- I was saying --" 

"If you make me pass out drooling in your *office*, sir --" 

"Not to worry, son, I know *exactly* what my men can take. But I was saying --" 

"Torture, more torture, gods and such, I'm listening." 

Treville snorts. "I had to give you -- the most promising recruit ever to walk into the garrison since Laurent finally unbent enough to *let* Athos come to us --" 

"Aw, sir --" 

"Shh. I had to give you the *tools* to *look* like a good, pious Catholic, son. Because, *unlike* the vast majority of the men here?" 

"Uh. Yeah?" 

"*You* -- and Athos, and whoever else we find to round out your unit -- are going to be spending a truly unforgivable amount of time guarding the royals themselves. *Not* just in their palaces and on their progresses, but...?" 

"In... church. Fuck, that's bloody *awful*. How d'you *stand* it?" 

"I spend the *entire* time filling my mind with unconscionably filthy dreams, fantasies, and *plans*, son." 

"Oh, *yeah*? I'd like to know some of *those*," Porthos says, and *his* tongue is peeking -- 

His beautiful eyes are *bright* -- 

The dog inside Treville is offering a long, sloppy list of suggestions about things they *could* tell Porthos about -- 

A not-at-all surprising number of those suggestions involve *just* wrestling and petting, because the dog is even more cuddly than usual when drunk -- 

And -- 

And Treville is taking *exactly* too long to answer, because Porthos is -- wincing. 

"I -- shit. I'm sorry --" 

"No, son, don't --" *Treville* winces. "I think, right now, you're worried that you just... overstepped. Right?" 

"I -- I -- you're *obviously* uncomfortable, sir, and -- I know -- it's not like you talk about your wank fantasies with *Athos* --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"See, that --" 

"Son, I -- wait. Wait just a moment. All right?" And Treville -- lets himself. He stands up and moves around to the front of the desk with his glass and the bottle, settling himself up in something like half a lean in front of Porthos -- 

And Porthos flares *his* nostrils.

Treville smiles wryly and *toasts* the most beautiful man he's ever seen in his *life* -- 

"Yeah, sir?"

"*Drink*." 

"Right you *are*, sir," Porthos says, and they do just that. 

Treville takes a breath -- 

Pours for both of them -- 

"I'm... trying to think of where to begin." 

"Sir...?" 

"The first thing you should know is this: You're my pack now, son. You couldn't 'overstep' with me without *actually* finding a way to go back in time and mouth off to my *father*." 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"And my Dad *liked* that sort of thing in a man -- *especially* when that man was as excellent a soldier as *you* are -- so, really, we're back to you *not being able to overstep with me* --" 

"You -- like me. I mean --" 

"I do, son. I care about you..." Treville winces. "Let's neither of us soften this, mm? Let's neither of us *hide* behind *pretense* and *politesse*." 

"No, I -- I won't --" 

"I'm a *dog*, son. Dogs aren't meant for lies." 

"No, sir, they're not --" 

"Dogs? Are *also* not meant for pissing *about* when it comes to their emotions. Porthos... I don't call you 'son' for no *reason*," Treville says, and... gives Porthos a moment. 

Watches him blush -- and watches him flush. 

Watches him *swallow*. 

Watches Porthos *study* Treville, and search within his eyes for answers -- Treville leaves himself just as wide open as he can. 

"I think..." 

"I'm listening, son." 

Porthos shivers like a horse. "I think uh... I think... you maybe want something more than a son, sir. Or... different." He swallows again -- 

Again -- 

"I -- please. Please tell me."


	2. Treville should probably plan a few more of his conversations. Maybe.

Oh, Porthos... "You should know, son... the dog in me has been trying very, very hard to convince me to open the locks on the kennel." 

"Oh --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and lets his eyes gleam -- for a moment. "I want *pack*, Porthos. Which means that, yes, I want more from you..." Treville growls and gives himself a shake. "I won't sugarcoat. I want everything. Everything." 

And Porthos looks down -- 

And down -- 

And *focuses* on Treville's crotch, where he's *absolutely* hard enough to show it, loose trousers and all. 

That -- no. 

Treville sets the bottle and his glass down, pushes the fingers of one hand into Porthos's beard, and the other into Porthos's *curls* -- 

"Oh -- shit --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and forces Porthos -- gently -- to look *up*. 

"Sir -- oh, sir --" 

"Shh. I want everything, son. Absolutely everything you can *give* me -- and then just a little bit more. But that has *nothing* to do with what *has* to happen between us," Treville says, and moves his hands back to the desk. 

"Uh. Did you..." 

"Mm?" 

"Did you plan to get me drunk and *not* fuck me?" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"I mean --" 

"Son --" 

"If you *wanted* me to wank myself *raw* for you --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"It's just that I'm usually more leisurely and gentle about things when I'm drunk --" 

"Oh. Really?" 

"Yeah. 'm sensitive when I'm drunk." 

That...

"You are *absolutely* revising about fifteen different fantasies --" 

"I --" 

"*Tell* me about them, sir! Or -- fuck, *show* me. Especially, you know, the ones with me sucking your fat prick, eh?" 

Treville watches, from a distance, as his intellect elopes with his morality. He's quite happy for them, really -- they're both weakly, stunted things, and he'd never thought they could find anyone who would accept them for who they were -- 

"Still with me in there, sir?" 

"I..." 

"D'you think more drinking could help?" 

Treville frowns -- 

And pours for both of them -- 

And drinks --

And drinks the other one, too -- 

Porthos splutters -- "*Sir*..." 

Treville grins and winks at his -- perfect -- subordinate. "Let me... be a little more honest with you." 

"What? I mean -- of course --" 

"You are... the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life, son," Treville says, cupping Porthos's face -- 

Stroking his beard -- 

Crushing it gently between his fingers -- he growls. "There is... mm. I was surrounded by the *terrifyingly* beautiful as a young man. You can see a great deal of that in Athos and Thomas, who have, between them, the best of their parents..." 

"Oh -- yeah -- they're bloody gorgeous, but, sir, I'm not --" 

"Shh, just a moment." 

Porthos swallows and nods. 

"The rest of my pack... mm. Let's just say that I spent a *great* deal of time wondering what the *hell* they saw in *me* --" 

"*Sir* --" 

"They did their level best to beat that darkness out of me -- and their best was very good. I know I don't break mirrors. I know I have... hmm. A certain *charm*, shall we say...?" 

"I could talk a little more about my fantasies about you working my arse *over*. If, you know, you think it would help," Porthos says, pooching his expression up and nodding judiciously again. 

Treville grins. "We'll get there," he says, and strokes over Porthos's beautiful mouth with his thumb -- 

"Oh -- fuck, your calluses are *amazing* --" Porthos *licks* -- 

"Oh, son... I brought up my late pack's beauty for a reason." 

"I'm listening," Porthos says -- *slurs* -- 

Treville shivers -- licks his lips. "This: I thought I knew myself, and how I responded to beauty. True beauty of the sort that stuns a man breathless. *Mindless*. Beauty that thickens your cock and dries your *mouth*.

"Beauty that you. That you try your *damnedest* to *ignore* because you need to see the measure of the person, to know them, to understand them, to prove to *yourself* -- once and for all -- that you're worth more than your needy, *drooling* cock." 

Porthos pants -- 

Pants -- 

And *sucks* Treville's thumb, soft and wet, soft and *suckling* -- 

"But what happens when you've made that measure, mm? What happens when you know, once and for all, that the phenomenal beauty in front of you -- 

"The beauty who walks and talks and *breathes* before you, *laughs* before you, each and every day...

"What happens when you know that beauty is just as beautiful inside? That when you inhaled his perfect scents -- *your* scents, son --"

Porthos looks up into Treville's eyes and then *drags* the flat of his tongue against his thumb -- 

Treville's cock *jerks* -- 

Porthos *moans* -- 

"Son -- I. One person did this to me. One -- one *woman*. My *mate*, and I -- I never thought I would feel --" 

And Porthos's eyes are wide, *shocked* -- 

Treville snarls and *hauls* Porthos up, out of the chair, *close* -- 

Grips him by the beard again and pulls him into a kiss, a nuzzle, a bite, a *kiss* -- 

Messy -- 

"Please -- mm -- *please* --" 

He knows what Porthos needs. He *knows*, and so he makes the kiss harder, less messy, more -- 

More *serious*, and he wraps his other arm around Porthos's waist -- no. He strokes down and gives that round and just a little *fat* arse a squeeze -- 

Porthos *gasps* into his mouth -- 

Treville slips his tongue deep, *deep* -- 

*Lengthens* his tongue just a little -- 

Porthos shudders and *bucks* against him, nods and cups Treville's hips *gently*. 

It's a question. 

It's -- 

It's more than one question, truly, because *Porthos* doesn't know how *many* different ways Treville wants him -- needs him. 

Porthos doesn't know what Treville *likes*, and is, perhaps, still concerned about offending his Captain. 

Treville eases the kiss slowly, gentles it. Nips at those soft and swelling lips, licks them and strokes his way out of Porthos's beard --

"Mm -- wait, please --" 

"Shh. I need your fantasies, son. And you need mine," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"Uhh. Can we maybe go with 'yes' and 'please' and 'now'?" 

Treville laughs and licks a *long* stripe from Porthos's mouth to his ear. "I don't play that fast and loose," he whispers -- 

"Aww --" 

"With the people I mean to keep for the rest of my *life*." 

Porthos grunts. "I... and." 

"Mm?" And Treville moves back far enough that they can meet each other's eyes -- and just a little farther than that, too. 

Far enough for them to *breathe*. 

Porthos moans and reaches for him -- 

Treville catches his hand and twines their fingers together. Squeezes firmly. "Tell me what you were going to say, son. *Ask* me." 

"I want -- you move *exactly* this fast. I mean. You do, right?" 

Treville smiles wryly. 

"Oh. You don't?" 

"It took me... a little while to figure out I was in love with Kitos, who was still Honoré back then. I was fourteen and an idiot in a number of ways -- including in that way where I tried, very hard, to hide the fact that I *mostly* preferred fucking men and boys to women or girls. Kitos, though... I wanted him, and I wanted him to be my brother, and I wanted to spend every waking moment in his *presence*... I figured it out. But I didn't say a word until *he* did. At which point he made me admit that I was also mooning for Laurent, who was our commanding officer -- and unofficial and *much*-needed nanny. He raised the two of us the rest of the way, and taught me things no one else could have. 

"Kitos beat the fear out of me. Laurent taught me -- *us* -- how to *stand*. Laurent then introduced us to Reynard, who I fell in love with..." Treville shakes his head. "I remember not being in love with him, but only because I remember exactly what I was doing when the two of us were *introduced*." 

"Oh -- shit -- did you move fast with *him*?" 

"I made a move on him the very first time we were alone together for more than an hour -- he turned me down." 

"Aww --" 

"*He* needed time... for more than a few reasons. It's a long and ugly story." 

"Right, right, I've uh. Heard a few of those," Porthos says. "And -- the women in your life? Your mate? What happened to --" But Porthos cuts himself off and winces.

Treville smiles wryly and squeezes Porthos's hand again. "Kitos and Reynard met Amina first, not long after we had our commissions. She worked in a teahouse not far from the Court of Miracles, and she was..." Treville sighs. "Beautiful. Raucous. Funny. Violent. Sharp. Brilliant. Stubborn. *Mean*. They tried to make time with her and got *nowhere*. They *kept* trying and *eventually* brought me along... she had me -- *owned* me -- after the first time I heard her laughing like an utter *arsehole* at one of her *own* filthy jokes." 

And... there's something like a haze?

A shimmer?

Something -- something *between* him and Porthos?

"Porthos?" 

"She sounds bloody *wonderful*, sir," he says, and smiles softly, gently, blinking a little like there'd been a haze for him, too, but -- "I -- you lost her when she was young?" 

Treville takes a shuddering breath. He can't think of anything but her, now. "Too young. Much too young. Our babe wasn't even named --" He growls. "It is, as I've said, a long story --" 

"You -- you lost a *child*, too?" 

"A son, Porthos." 

"Oh, *sir* --"

And that is when Treville finds himself getting the *stuffing* hugged out of him by the most beautiful -- and best-smelling -- man on the sphere. 

There are any number of worse fates. 

Treville hugs Porthos right back, tucking his nose in against his throat and sniffing shamelessly. 

"Oh." 

"Mm?" 

"I um. That's..." 

"Yes?" 

"Well, I *hadn't* had a fantasy of you sniffing my crotch while fingering me wide open for your cock --" 

"You have one now, son?"

"*Yes*, sir." 

Treville *licks* Porthos's throat, short and a little sharp -- 

"Unh --" 

"The dog inside me is *overjoyed* about that, by the way," Treville says, and sniffs his way *across* Porthos's throat -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"To be fair, so is the rest of me -- you smell *incredible*." 

"When I'm sweaty?" 

"Yes, but also every second of every minute of every *day*." 

"Uhh..." 

Treville pulls back -- 

"Oh --" 

"Too much?" 

"Right, sir, here it is: I am categorically incapable of saying *anything* which might lead to you *not touching me*," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Pointedly. 

Very --

The dog inside Treville is wagging his tail *just* as pointedly, which frankly shouldn't be possible, considering the fact that the dog is still wallowing drunkenly on his back, but -- well. 

Treville can, occasionally, pick up on hints. He cups Porthos's face with one hand -- getting his thumb *right* back on that perfect mouth -- 

"Oh -- mm --" 

\-- and starts working open Porthos's trousers with his other hand -- 

"Oh, *yeah*," Porthos says, slurring around Treville's thumb, and reaches for *Treville's* trousers -- 

"Good boy. Why don't you tell me *how* you want to be touched, hm?" And he slips his hand into those loosened trousers -- 

*Cups* Porthos's cock through his straining breeches -- 

"Why don't you tell me *exactly* how you like it, son." 

For a moment, Porthos only stares at him, looking needy and *beautifully* scrambled -- and just a bit hotter than that when Treville hums and gives that trapped cock a nice, hard squeeze.

"Go on, son. Tell me." 

"I -- *fuck*," Porthos says, and Treville can feel Porthos's hands shaking as he tries and fails to get Treville's trousers open -- mm. 

"Is it just a little too hard at the moment, son...?" 

"I -- I *can* --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and gives Porthos another squeeze -- 

"Fuck -- oh --" 

And another -- 

"*Please* --" 

"You *are* sensitive right now. Aren't you, son." 

"Yeah -- yeah, I -- *fuck* –" 

Treville *holds* the squeeze, and it's not very hard, but he makes a point of pinning Porthos with a *look* while he does it. 

"S-sir --" 

"Why don't you get those hands behind your back, son." 

Porthos's eyes fly open like a boy's. "I -- you -- you want...?" 

Treville licks his lips *slowly*... and smiles. "I want it very, very badly... among other things which I want *just* as badly. But," he says, and *holds* Porthos's gaze. "I don't want *anything*, in this moment, that makes you uncomfortable." And he raises his eyebrows and loosens his grip -- 

"No -- *please*, I -- *ungh* --" 

Treville squeezes again. "You can have one without the other, son. You can have..." He sighs and breathes deep of sweat and hunger and *need*. "You can have anything you want of me." 

"And. And it'll be... what you want." Porthos licks his lips and laughs breathlessly. "I meant for that to be a *question*," he says, and *locks* his hands behind his back -- 

"Oh, son..." 

"Sir. I want it. I want -- of bloody *course* I've tossed myself off to dreams of you being *hard* on me. Of you really -- really taking it out on my *hide* --" 

Treville growls -- "Son." 

"I just didn't think -- I don't know *what* I thought. I couldn't really... pin down what I *really* thought you'd be like in bed." 

That -- "Or shoved up against my desk?" 

"Or... over it? Enh...?" 

Treville yips a laugh and leans in to lick Porthos's face *thoroughly*, pushing his free hand into Porthos's curls and gripping firmly, gripping the way he *wants* to. And then he licks a path to that round little ear. "Son. I don't think there's anything you could tell me you wanted -- *hungered* for -- that wouldn't drive me mad to give it to you." 

"Fuck -- I --" 

"Mm. Your cock just jerked in my hand..." 

"Yeah -- yeah, it *did*, sir --" 

"Let's get you free, mm?" 

"Please -- oh." 

And Treville gives in to the need to make *love* to Porthos's ear, Porthos's *blushing* ear, licking and lapping, kissing and *nuzzling* as he works open Porthos's breeches at last -- 

"Oh, sir -- sir, that feels bloody fantastic --" 

For a moment, Treville can think of nothing but how Amina would *croon* for having her ears molested, how she would -- if Treville was especially *dedicated* about it -- *writhe*. 

He *bites* Porthos's earlobe, tugging at the ring, and growls low even as he eases the loosened breeches aside -- 

Porthos whines for him and tries to press closer, *offers* himself for Treville's touch -- 

His cock pops free, thick and slick and hard for Treville, for *this* -- and it's only the need to get his bollocks in hand, too, that stops Treville from *immediately* stroking. 

As it is, though... 

He has to see. 

He has to nip and kiss and caress Porthos back to the desk until he's sitting down on it, until he's looking up with half-dazed eyes at Treville -- 

No, it's not right, not yet. Not -- 

Treville hauls Porthos up and *yanks* those trousers and breeches down just a little more, just enough that Porthos's *bare* arse will be on the desk -- 

Just like this -- 

"Oh -- sir --" 

"I want to smell you here for as long as possible, son," Treville says, and *grips* Porthos by the cock -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Is it too hard?" 

"I -- I -- you can touch me however you *want* to --" 

"Shh. Is it too *hard*. We both know you're sensitive right now... and I only want to hurt you when --" 

"When. When I want to be hurt?" 

Treville flares his nostrils helplessly, taking in Porthos's wonder, his hunger, his *thrill* -- "Son..." His rolls his head on his neck and laughs. "The dog inside me is *desperate* to roll around with you." 

Porthos blinks. "Uh. That's a bit of an ominous statement, considering what we're doing right now." 

Treville bares his teeth and lets his eyes gleam. "I won't lie to you, son. The dog *absolutely* wants to mount you *just* as much as I do --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"The dog is, however, exactly as much of a *rapist* as I am," he says, raising an eyebrow -- and loosening his grip.

Porthos blinks -- "I -- oh. Yeah?" 

Treville nods once... and smiles wryly. "He understands that humans have strange ideas about who and what they should and shouldn't fuck." 

"Um." 

"He thinks you all need about a millennium's worth of reeducation on the matter by the All-Mother, but..." Treville shrugs. 

"Right, but, how do *you* feel about it?" 

"There is no way I don't want to fuck you, son -- and that includes me ceding control of my twinned soul to the dog." 

"Oh."

"But, as we've *established*...?"

"You -- don't want anything I don't want. I -- sorry --" 

"Shh, son. It's all right. I've asked you to accept quite a bit from me today --" 

"No -- no, not that -- please don't *stop* --" 

"Son --" 

"Fuck, sir, it would --" Porthos blows out a breath and *pleads* into Treville's eyes, covering Treville's hand on his cock. "It would kill me if something I said made you pull *back*." 

Treville -- takes a breath. "You've... wanted more of me than you've had." 

"I'd say I was surprised that Athos didn't *tell* you, but --" 

"We're talking about Athos, yes," Treville says, laughing quietly -- 

Laughing *with* Porthos -- 

So *beautiful*, from his head to his toes and *right* to the cock leaking all over Treville's hand -- 

Thick and dark and so -- 

"Tell me," Treville says, and leans in to lick Porthos's perfect mouth -- 

"Oh --" 

"Tell me how to *touch* you." 

"Oh, fuck, sir, anything, *anything* --" 

"But do you want it *hard*, son?" And Treville starts to stroke, just stroke, just --

Porthos pants, eyes wide again -- "Even this --" 

"You like it." 

"Your *calluses*, sir --" 

"You've wanted them." 

"*Please* -- I -- all *over* me --"

"Inside you, son...?" 

"Hnh -- I -- *yeah* --" 

"While I sniff you, you said..." 

"Oh fuck --" 

Treville strokes *faster*, leaning in to take a slow and *thorough* perusal of Porthos's scents. 

"S-sir --" 

His throat, his ears -- 

His hair and mouth -- 

His collarbone... 

"'m. 'm so *hard* for you, sir --" 

"The feeling," Treville says, and licks at Porthos's throat-notch, "is entirely mutual." 

"Please. I. Would you..." 

"Yes," Treville says, and *bites* Porthos's throat -- 

"*Please*!" 

Treville strokes *faster*, taking all the slick Porthos is putting out and using it to make his strokes just a little easier, just a little *sweeter* -- 

"Oh -- oh *please* --" 

Treville growls around his mouthful and squeezes -- 

"*Fuck*, sir, I -- I -- I want..." 

Treville pulls *back*. "Tell me what you want, son," he says, and licks his salty lips. "Tell me *everything*." 

For long moments, Porthos only stares up at him, eyes wide and hungry. His face is flushed and damp with sweat; his lips are bitten-swollen; and everything about his expression is telling Treville that he can have this, that this, too, can be for him -- 

Somehow for *him* -- 

"Oh, son, you don't have to say a *word* if you don't want to, I --" 

"I -- fuck, sir, I want you to talk to *me*," Porthos says, and blushes hot, so -- "I. I always thought..." 

Treville growls helplessly and pushes his free hand back into that wonderful beard -- 

Tilts Porthos's face *up* with his grip -- 

"Shit --" 

"What did you think, son? Mm?" 

"Fuck -- fuck, I can't see your *hand* on me anymore -- uh." 

"Should I keep it that way until you answer me...?"

Porthos's cock jerks *violently* -- and his eyes go heavy-lidded and hazy. Hungrier, too. 

Treville licks his lips. "Should we take that as a yes...?" 

"Please, I. Yeah. Yeah. Just." 

"Just what." 

"Please don't stop, sir," Porthos says, licking his own lips, and -- "Don't stop anything. Don't -- I'll answer all your questions. I'll -- anything you want --" 

Treville growls and squeezes on the downstroke -- 

"Yeah --" 

And does it again -- 

"Please, yeah --" 

Again -- and then he slows the strokes *down*. 

"*Please* --" 

"Shh. Tell me what you 'always thought' when it came to me. Tell me what you *want* from me. Tell me..." Treville squeezes firmly -- but not *too* firmly --

"*Nnh* --" 

And kisses Porthos just as hungrily as he wants to, just as *filthily* as he wants to, letting his tongue lengthen right into that hot mouth -- 

Porthos suckles perfectly, nodding and tilting up into it, giving himself over to having his mouth *filled* by Treville's tongue -- 

And shaking when Treville growls and pulls back. "Now, son. Tell me." 

"Fuck, I -- I always thought you'd be *good* at this, sir. At -- at taking control *and* talking a bloke *through* you taking control." 

Treville cocks his head a little. "Even though you weren't entirely sure what sort of sex I *liked*, son?" 

"*Yes*, sir. I mean, I've learned to be *extremely* good at several kinds of sex *I* hate, if you catch my meaning." 

That... Treville can't keep himself from narrowing his eyes, from *pausing*, even though Porthos's tone was about as breezily unconcerned as it *could* be -- 

"Oh -- shit. Sir, no, don't -- don't get all caught up --" 

"I won't make you talk about it now, son." 

"*Thank* you --" 

"But I'd like to know. I... would very much like for you to trust me with that, someday." 

Porthos gives him a level look for that -- a look which doesn't have a damned thing to do with *any* of the looks a subordinate might give his superior officer, no matter how naked and sticky those two people might be -- 

A look which Treville will take, with gratitude, every *fucking* day if it means he can have *this*. He slips his fingers out of Porthos's beard and caresses his cheek, instead. "I meant that."

Porthos licks his lips. "I. I guess -- I mean. I know that about you. I think maybe I've always known that about you. Sir." 

Treville cocks his head to the side again. "Is that what you want to call me...?" 

"Uh. When you're doing a *truly* world-class job of putting me on my *knees*? Figuratively and -- hopefully soon -- *literally*?" 

Treville hums and lets every bit of the smile he feels be in his *eyes*, but -- there's more to be said. "You like it down there, son...?" 

"With you," Porthos says, and meets Treville's gaze steadily. Surely. "With you, *sir*." 

Treville strokes Porthos's mouth with his thumb *while* he strokes that perfect cock. 

"Oh -- yeah. Yeah, please --" Porthos kisses Treville's thumb-tip wetly -- 

"Good boy..." 

"Yes, sir. *Yours*, sir." 

"I've dreamed that, son. I have... mm. Extensively," Treville says, and lets his eyes gleam precisely as much as they want to. 

"So have I, sir. Usually while fucking myself stupid with my great big toy."

Treville... locks himself down.

Rolls his head on his neck. 

Does *not* squeeze that cock --

"Sir? Was that..." 

"The dog in me -- who is, in fact, significantly more drunk than I am right now --" 

"Uh." 

"-- has, finally, stopped wanting to cuddle you more than he wants to fuck you blind, mute, and catastrophically foolish, son." 

"Wait but -- you said he wanted to fuck me *before*." 

"Oh, he did. Quite a bit. But *now* he's being rather vehement about it." 

"Uhh..." 

"You'll have to give me a..." Treville takes a breath -- no. He *releases* Porthos's cock and brings his slick hand to his mouth so he can sniff, and snuffle, and lick and bite and -- 

"Well, I was thinking about being upset about you not stroking me anymore --" 

"Son, I -- mm, I -- just a --" 

"No, 's fine. I can understand. You've got to share the treats with the dog." 

"That's *right* -- fuck, you're *delicious* --" 

"You uh. Want to eat me alive, sir...?" 

"At -- mm. At *length*, son," Treville says, and laps at his fingers once -- 

Twice -- 

"At length... and in depth," Treville says, and wraps his wet hand around Porthos's cock again -- 

"Oh --" 

And shoves his dry fingers back into that beard, yanking Porthos's head *up* -- 

"Sir --" 

"Now. Where were we." 

"You were losing your mind for the images -- thoughts? -- of me fucking myself, sir." 

"Mm. Oh, yes. But... mostly?" 

"Yeah, sir?" 

Treville grins and squeezes just a *little* more firmly than he had been -- 

"Fuck --" 

Strokes *fast* -- 

"Nnh -- oh please -- please don't *stop* this time, sir --" 

"Not until you spend, son. Not until you spend all over us *both* --" 

"Oh -- oh shit --" 

"And I was dreaming of your *musk*, son. Dreaming... mm. One day -- soon -- I'll have you flat on your back with a pillow *firmly* under your jiggly arse --" 

"Please *yes* --" 

"I'll get you open. Let you feel every... oh... every last *one* of my calluses --" 

"Yeah -- oh, *yeah* --" 

"But... only on *two* fingers, son."

"Wh-what? But --" 

"Shh. You're going to let me see you open *yourself*, son," Treville says, and grins down into Porthos's eyes. "You're going to let me see you *fuck* yourself open with that toy of yours --" 

"Shit --" 

"How big is it, mm? Should I only slick you a little with *one* finger, son? Just to make certain you really *feel* it --" 

Porthos whines and *bucks* -- 

Treville sighs. "Oh, son. I need it. I need to see you *taking* it -- and see you aching for *me*." 

"Hnh -- I -- begging. I -- *begging*, sir --" 

"For me...?" 

"*Yes*, sir --" 

"Then do it now, son. Show me you know *how*," Treville says, and drags the worst -- the *best* -- of his calluses over the head of Porthos's cock -- 

Drags them over and *over* at the end of every stroke -- 

Porthos is gasping and staring *wildly* into Treville's eyes -- 

Porthos is *whining* -- 

"Oh, son... you know what to do..." 

"I -- I -- *please*, sir!" 

"Please what, mm? What should I do for my good boy?" 

"For -- for --" 

"What should I give my *beautiful* boy..." 

"*Fuck* -- I -- please *fuck* me, sir, please, I --" 

"How should I fuck you? *Where* should I do it, mm?" And Treville drags his calluses more slowly, more *roughly* -- 

Porthos sobs and bucks -- "S-sir, I -- fuck my mouth, my arse -- bend me over and *have* me, sir, have me *anywhere*!" 

"Good boy, son. Good -- mm. You're perfect. You're beautiful. That was just right," Treville says, and squeezes -- 

Squeezes -- 

Strokes *fast* and squeezes every time, every -- 

Porthos bucks into his fist, tries to *fuck* Treville's fist but is shaking too hard to keep a *rhythm* -- 

"Oh, son... just a little more..." 

"Yes, sir, yes -- please -- *please*!" 

"Do you want me to be as *hard* on you as you are on yourself...? Mm? Is that what you need?" 

"Nnh -- I -- sometimes! Please, sir!" 

"Not *all* the time, though... mm. That's a beautiful thought, son..." And Treville grins and *works* that cock -- 

"*Sir* --" 

"Don't you think you should spend for me...?" 

"Ahn -- I -- please --" 

"Don't you think you should spend and spend just as fast as you can so you can hurry up and bend *over* for me?" 

Porthos moans loudly, needily, eyes rolling back in his head just a little even as he starts to pound Treville's fist even *more* raggedly -- 

"Oh, that's it, son... that's perfect. More." 

"Sir --" 

"More, son. *Fuck* my hand exactly the way you want me to fuck your beautiful arse today."

Porthos cries out sharply and *shoves* in -- 

In-in-*in* -- 

His eyes are hazed and *helpless* -- 

"Oh, son... oh, son, I'll give *that* to you anytime, anywhere. Keep *going*." 

"Please --" 

Treville tightens his *grip* -- 

Porthos *slams* in and sobs, shooting off hot and slick and inspiringly -- and intriguingly -- generously, considering the fact that he's not a shifter. 

Treville files the thought under the many mysteries of the All-Mother, and how She chooses to bestow Her many *particular* blessings, and applies himself to the many joys inherent to milking Porthos *dry*. 

"That's it, son... oh, that's just *perfect*..." 

"S-sir!" 

"You know a good son always gives *everything* to his... well," Treville says, and gives Porthos a sharp smile. Something to focus on through the haze, something to *think* about should he ever wish to -- 

"Oh *fuck*, I -- if you let me call you Daddy -- I -- *fuck*," Porthos says, and he's laughing breathlessly -- 

Gasping and moaning just a little even as his cock spasms dryly in Treville's hand -- 

Laughing *more* and letting his head fall back -- 

Letting his beard *pull* against Treville's now-*convulsive* grip on it -- 

"Shit, sir, whatever you *want*," he says, and *then* does his best to sit upright again. 

Which means that it's *past* time for Treville to start *functioning* again -- 

For Treville to do more than just *stare* -- 

For Treville to -- no. Honesty. Honesty has always, *always* been the best way to approach his loved ones. *All* of his loved ones. 

He tugs on Porthos's beard until they can meet each other's eyes again -- 

Until they can *see* each other in *this* moment -- 

Until Porthos can see *him*. 

"Oh -- sir? Are you..." He frowns, and *then* starts to move his hands from behind his back -- and then stops, just like that. "Sir, I would like to touch you. Your. Your face." 

Treville shivers. "One moment, son. And then... we can ease off a little." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "Yes, sir." And then he simply waits for Treville, eyes wide and self *patient*. 

*Open*. 

So -- no. No.

Treville squeezes his eyes shut as his mind fills with a *cascade* of images and memories of what it had been like to make love with *Amina*, how it had been in the *first* days, when there had been honest, desperation-inducing, cock-throbbing *shock* every time they realized that there was nothing they didn't want from each other, nothing too wild, nothing too dark or strange or outré that they couldn't *transform* into lovemaking solely by being who they were, and who they were *together*. 

It was everything, and every time, and every *moment*, and -- Treville recognizes himself. 

Porthos hits him in so *many* of the same ways Amina had, Porthos makes him feel so -- 

So *wild* -- 

But Porthos is damned well half his *age*, his *subordinate*, and has had less than two *hours* to get accustomed to the idea of a Treville he can drink and be an arsehole with -- much less one he can make *love* with. 

He can't -- 

Treville *must* not *treat* him the way he would treat Amina. He must not -- 

He's been given a second chance to *love* like this -- and he's so grateful he can't *see* straight.

He will *not*, however, let his blindness make him stop treating Porthos like his own person. So. 

Treville takes another *breath*, shuddering and hungry for all the sweat and musk and spend -- and *alert* for all of Porthos's curiosity, *non*-sexual need, and burgeoning worry. Treville smiles wryly. 

"So um. You're back from... wherever you went, then?"

"I had to... tighten my own lead for a moment, son." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Because... no. Please tell me, sir." 

Treville nods. "Because the thought of you calling me 'Daddy' made me... wild inside. Not just for the *particular* fixation of it, and not just for the particular *desperate* need to have *you* do it --" 

"Oh --" 

"Wait, son. Please." 

"I -- I *want* to, sir. I mean -- I've thought about it a *lot* --" 

"Son --" 

"In some *extremely* humid moments, if you catch my meaning --" 

Treville coughs a laugh -- 

"I mean, I wasn't *going* to bring it up, not our first time and all, but --" 

"Son, I --" 

"-- then *you* went there, and I just need you to know that *you do not have to pin your cock back*. *Not for this*. Sir." And Porthos raises both eyebrows. 

And lowers his chin -- as much as he can with Treville still *gripping* his *beard* -- 

"That was a hint, by the way." 

Treville stares. 

"I mean -- I could probably be more *obvious* about this if you think it would --" 

Treville leans in and bites Porthos's mouth. His whole, wonderful mouth. 

Hard. 

And then he pulls back. 

"Or I could behave. We could try that." 

Treville smiles because the alternative is on another sphere entirely. "Son -- one thing?" 

"I'm listening, sir. I -- I don't mean to --" 

"Shh. You did nothing wrong. Not truly. I just need you to know... something very important about me. About what *this* -- the two of us -- *feels* like to me." 

Porthos blinks, eyes wide in an instant. "Sir?" 

Treville takes another breath and curls his hand just a little tighter around Porthos's messy cock -- which had long since stopped softening -- and tugs his other fingers free of Porthos's beard so he can pet and stroke Porthos's curls. "I told you -- I *started* to tell you -- that I haven't felt anything *like* what I feel for you since I had my mate, but... I need to be very clear about that with you." 

Porthos blinks more and nods. "Sir, I -- I'd do anything for you. I need you to *know* that. From -- from the first *day*, you just -- you felt *right* to me --" 

"Oh, son... that's just it. Everything was right with my mate. There was nothing we couldn't have with each other. Nothing we couldn't *take* from each other, because --" 

"Because. Because maybe it was all really *giving*, sir?" 

Treville inhales -- "Yes. *Yes*. We -- everything with her was a gift. For *both* of us. And I'm afraid --" 

"You think, because you feel so -- so *strongly* about me, that you'll... I don't know. No, I do: You think you'll *push* me too hard when we're making love. You think you'll ask for too *much*. Right?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I... have a few reflexes for this feeling, son. I'm asking you to help me keep a lead on, from time to time. It would break me if I chased you away from me." 

"Well, you're in luck, sir, because I'm not a bloody *coward*," Porthos says, and glares at him *belligerently*. 

"I..."

"*I* am waiting very sodding patiently for you to say something which will explain how you're actually *not* calling me a coward. Sir." 

"That is a *remarkably* mean look on your face, son --" 

"I've worked at it. But --" 

"It's not about -- I would never call you a coward, son. It has nothing to do with any fears of *yours*." 

Porthos frowns. "How's that, then? You're the one talking about chasing me *away* --" 

"Yes --" 

"And I would like to point out that I'm half-naked on my *Captain's* desk after just covering both of us in my spend, *and* I'm talking a *murderous* amount of shite, so, again, you *have* to realize it's going to take a bit to chase me off." 

"All right, first?" 

"Yes, sir?" 

"We're getting drunk together at *least* twice a week." 

"Right you are, sir; start small and work your way up." 

Treville snorts. "Son."


	3. A good Captain will use the occasional brief, individual meeting with their subordinates to get to know more about them, and their needs.

Porthos winks -- and jerks his chin at Treville. "*Tell* me, sir. What is it? I already know I drive you up a tree, and I am *exceedingly* happy about that, because *I've* spent the past eight months trying to get Athos to teach me the secret code words to make you fuck your subordinates."

Treville opens his mouth -- 

Closes it -- 

Frowns and tries to -- "What..." 

"Athos said there weren't any code words." 

Treville takes a breath. 

"Then he got all thoughtful about it, though." 

Treville *stops* breathing -- 

"Said he remembered certain moments with you and his father and Uncles -- not his Mum, because apparently she was a bit more private?" 

"Subtle. Definitely -- ah --" 

"Right, well, Athos said he *remembered* that that Reynard, especially, could always get you to sit up and take notice with a pointed word or two --" 

"Oh fuck." 

"And that sometimes his *father* and that *Kitos* could do it with a *look*." And Porthos raises his eyebrows with *interest*. 

Treville reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose -- and immediately gets distracted by the need to lick and bite and slurp at his hand for -- 

A while. 

Just -- "Give me -- mm --" 

Porthos laughs brightly -- 

Beautifully -- 

"Take your time, sir." 

Treville does *just* that, and, once his hand is both clean and somewhat bruised, he shoves *both* hands into Porthos's curls and *pulls* him into a kiss that's no more needy than he feels, no more hungry, no more -- 

Ah, fuck, this -- 

*This*, and Porthos is nodding, pressing closer, giving -- 

And when Treville strokes down with one hand -- 

Both of Porthos's hands are still behind his *back*. 

Treville growls into Porthos's mouth. 

"Anything, sir. *Anything*." 

"What..." Treville shudders and does his best to *pin* Porthos with a look. "What do *you* need, son. What..." Have you ever *felt* like this?

Porthos looks thoughtful for long moments, *distant* -- 

It's too *much* -- but Treville has to let him think. He -- he forces himself to settle for petting Porthos, stroking -- 

*Urging* him to come *back* -- 

Porthos shivers. "I'm thinking -- um. I think, sometimes, I must've felt you." 

"Mm?" 

"Your magic, I mean. Or -- something," Porthos says, and looks into him. *Into* him. "I think maybe you've been... reaching for me. Or..." Porthos frowns and looks away again. 

"Son, I have *absolutely* been doing my level best to keep from pouncing on you and rolling us around in the dirt at all times, and there is no doubt in my *mind* that you've felt the *echoes* of that at the very *least*." 

Porthos nods, still frowning.

"Son...?" 

"I... 's only that I think I felt... something."

"Mm?" 

"Before, I mean," Porthos says, looking up again. "Before I met you. Before there was... anyone."

Treville blinks and raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure of that, son?" 

"I am *absolutely* sure that none of the people I've been involved with were... this. Because *this* is *you*."

And there's... something for that. 

Something that's -- 

There's a reach for that, or a question, or -- 

Something shimmering -- 

Something -- 

"-- for you to trust me," Porthos says, and he's giving Treville another *pointed* look, and -- 

Nothing matters but answering it. *Giving* answer. 

Nothing, at all. 

"I trust you, son. And I won't hold back from you," he says, and hauls Porthos to his feet.

"Oh -- no, sir?" 

"Call me... what you want to call me. Son." 

"*Fuck* --" And Porthos's smile manages to be bright, wild, hungry, thrilled, *pleased* -- all at once. 

"Give that to me, son. Give it to both of us." 

"Yes -- yes, *Daddy* -- fuck --" And Porthos is blushing again, blushing hot and sweet -- 

And Treville knows he's just as red. He nods. "We'll always have this, son." 

"Don't -- we shouldn't --" 

"Shh," Treville says, and reaches around to *grip* those locked-in-place wrists -- 

"Oh. I'll -- I'll be still --" 

"That you will, son," Treville says, and looks up into those beautiful dark eyes -- so close to *black* in the candlelight, because this office gets a *painfully* small amount of sunlight at this time of day, and -- 

And Porthos is beautiful. Beautiful. 

"You'll be still and you'll listen to me telling you that we will always have *this*. This moment, between us, when you're my son and I'm your *Daddy* --" 

"Fuck fuck --" And Porthos shudders and *grins* -- 

And Treville grins right back. "We'll have *this*, son. Nothing and no one can take it away." 

"Please -- I..." 

"Mm?" 

"You. You hold your memories close." 

"Of course, son. Don't you?" 

"No, I mean -- I mean *yes*, I do, but..." And Porthos licks his lips again and pleads into Treville's eyes a little. 

Treville nods and squeezes Porthos's wrists. "Tell me, son. Tell me everything you need to tell me. *Ask* me everything." 

"Daddy. I." If anything, Porthos blushes harder -- 

And Treville is rumbling and obliterating the last tiny distance between them -- 

Licking against the grain of Porthos's beard -- 

Nipping at that beautiful mouth -- "Tell me. Ask me." 

"Yes, Daddy. I -- yes. I think -- I think maybe your memories are more important than -- than any *thing*. Any -- any *object*. That you -- hold them. The way other people hold jewelry, or paintings, or... you know. Um." 

Treville rumbles more, rumbles *harder* and licks Porthos's mouth -- 

Licks it again -- 

Again -- 

Porthos moans and licks him *back* -- 

"Good boy..." 

"Please --" 

"I do keep some things, son. The last few fragments of the *special* saddlebag that went with Kitos, Reynard, and me every time we rode out together -- the one we packed with liquor, dice, cards, oil, pomade, and everything else men of a certain stripe might need on the road," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow...

Porthos coughs and grins *broadly* -- 

Treville grins back. "Most of the *things* I've kept are the few things of Amina's -- and our son's -- I had possession of before she disappeared. Before..." He shakes his head and lets his smile fade. "You can make enemies in all sorts of places, in all sorts of *ways* in this world, son." 

"I -- yes, Daddy --" 

"*Amina* got on the wrong side of a powerful death-mage. Powerful enough that he could hide her -- and our babe -- from the rest of the pack, all while he was draining her of her life-force one little bit at a time..."

Porthos is blinking rapidly again, seems to almost be trying to reach for something -- 

His eyes lose focus -- 

They... 

"Son?" 

Porthos shakes his head as if to clear a fog. "Your mate... you never saw her again? After the death-mage hid her?" 

"Not until she was dead, son. Not until an entirely *different* death-mage led me to her body -- and *not* to our son." Treville bares his teeth. "I saw his drawings on the wall. I saw... I *smelled* him in that draughty little tenement room --" 

"Oh --" 

"I could tell that he was healthy. Healthy and strong and --" Treville growls. "Even now? I can feel him." 

Porthos blinks. "Daddy...?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Amina and I were bound -- blood-bound -- while the babe was in her womb, son. Do you... know what that means?" 

Porthos *stares* at him, which... 

Treville smiles just a little *more* ruefully. "You do." 

"Uhh. You can... fuck. You must be able to feel everything *about* him!" 

Treville shakes his head. "I know he's alive. I know he's -- still -- healthy and strong. I know he has the *potential* to be an incredibly powerful earth-mage, above and beyond his physical strength. I don't know anything else. Not a damned thing."

"No -- oh. He's still hidden." 

Treville inclines his head. "Even though I -- with the help of an ally -- tortured the death-mage who *did* this to us until he would've answered *any* question... the curse was too strong. And, by the time we could *get* to the death-mage -- Guillou was his name -- my boy was hidden from *him*, as well." 

"Your mate had done that, yeah?" 

"Mm. Guillou's thought on the matter -- and he had no *ability* to lie at the time -- was that my Amina had used the last of her magic -- and her *life* -- to all but *weave* protective magics between our boy and absolutely *everything* which could ever harm him. It kept him safe from Guillou -- and meant that Guillou could do nothing to help us *find* him when the time came." 

Porthos swallows, expression dark and angry and *hurt*. It... 

Treville shakes his head again and strokes back up to Porthos's beautiful face. "Shh, not this, son." 

"Daddy, I -- I want to *comfort* you. I know I bloody *can't*, but --" 

"You're doing that right now, son. Among *many* other things," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's cheeks with his thumbs. "You're giving me... something truly beautiful." 

Porthos shivers right there on his feet -- "You're -- you're giving *me* -- and I don't -- I don't think it should be..." He flushes deeply. 

"You don't think it should be what? Mm?"

Porthos looks down -- as much as he can with Treville holding his face *firmly*. "Daddy -- sir --" 

"Shh. Don't backslide, son. *Never* backslide." 

Porthos *pants* -- "I -- I won't, but --" 

"But... you don't think you've earned this. Do you." 

Porthos winces, stiffens -- "I want -- I never want to *disappoint* you --" 

"Shh, shh," Treville says, and tugs Porthos's head up by the beard again. "What have I told you about beauty, mm? About the kind of beauty that goes right down to the soul and right out to everything *you* do and say and *are*?"

Porthos's eyes are wide and *young*. So -- 

"Oh, son. There isn't a man *alive* who wouldn't want you as his son -- not if that man is worth anything, at all." 

"Please --" 

"There isn't a man who wouldn't keep you, take you, *claim* you for his own -- fuck, son, I've needed you so *badly* --" 

And Porthos steps closer suddenly, forcing Treville to move back to keep from *overbalancing* -- 

"Son --" 

"*Please*," Porthos says, and *uses* the distance between them to drop to his knees, right there on the hard floor in front of the desk -- 

No self-respecting Captain of the King's Musketeers would need a bloody *rug* -- 

No -- but. 

But Treville is petting Porthos, petting his son, this son whom he can have, whom he *will* have for just as long as the spheres allow it, just as long -- 

And Porthos is kissing Treville's hand, nuzzling and slurring our fervent *pleas* -- 

"I know." Treville swallows with a hard, needy *click*. "I know what you need, son," he says, and moves his hands to his laces. 

*Orders* them not to shake when Porthos looks up at him so hopefully, so *happily* --

"I'll show you, son," Treville says, and gets himself open -- 

*Open* -- 

"I'll show you... how much you *please* me..." 

"Daddy --" 

"And then I'll show you how to please me *better*, son. How to..." Treville growls hard, *low*, and his fingers are thick and clumsy -- 

His *mind* is thick and *stupid* -- 

And Porthos is looking only into Treville's eyes, giving himself again, sharing all of his *passion* -- 

Treville looks lower -- and immediately wishes he'd waited a moment, because Porthos's cock is fully hard again, leaking steadily, bobbing with his unsteady breaths, and Treville has just torn his breeches. 

"Oh, Daddy..." 

"Yours, Porthos. *Yours*," he says, and gives up, shoving his breeches down, tearing them further but getting himself *free* -- 

Porthos licks his *lips* -- and *now* his gaze is on Treville's tackle, *greedy* on his tackle, roving over and *over* Treville's cock and bollocks like they're a meal he's going to be *tested* on before he'll be allowed to *eat*. 

Treville's about as likely to manage something like that as he is to manage *flight*. But -- "Son... I need you to tell me... just a few more things," Treville says, cupping his cock just above his knot with one hand and gripping Porthos's curls lightly with the other.

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and he already sounds drugged with it, sounds *sweet* -- 

Treville's cock jerks and stripes Porthos's mouth with slick -- 

Porthos pants and -- doesn't lick his lips. Oh... 

"Are you waiting for permission, son...?" 

"Yes, Daddy." 

"You have it, son. You *always* have it. You..." Treville growls, both hands flexing. "I'll tell you when you *don't* have permission to taste me. Do you understand?" 

Porthos looks up into Treville's eyes -- and licks his lips thoroughly. *Hungrily*. "Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy." 

Treville sighs and -- marks Porthos. 

Marks his *son* by dragging the drooling, red, and doggishly-pointed tip of his needy cock along the outline of his mouth -- 

Along his cheeks and down the bridge of his nose -- 

Through his crinkly-scratchy *beard*, and they're both panting for this, both staring into each other with desperate eyes, straining *toward* each other just as if they're *restrained* where they are -- but. "Are you mine, son...?" 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, with not one *hint* of hesitation or pause. Not a *blink*. 

"You know I'm yours, don't you...?" 

"I know you'll show me, Daddy. I know you'll. You'll always show me," Porthos says, licking his lips and shivering on his knees. "Please. Please." 

"One more question, son. Just one: Do I take my pleasure of you --" 

"*Please* --" 

"-- or do I let you please me *senseless* *exactly* the way we *both* know you can." 

Porthos's mouth falls open on a moan --

He looks *scrambled* again -- 

His cock is *jerking* -- but is he reacting to the possibilities or to the question itself...? 

"I need you, son. I need everything *about* you." 

"'m yours, Daddy, I'm --" 

"Shh. Choose for me. Choose and let me get to know you in *this* moment." 

"Oh. Oh, fuck, Daddy, then -- " Porthos swallows and shifts on his knees, magnificent shoulders flexing. "May. May I use my *hands*, *too*." 

Oh... Treville grins. "Give them to me. *Show* me." 

"*Thank* you, Daddy," Porthos says, fervent and low, and immediately reaches up to haul Treville's trousers and breeches even lower -- before nuzzling up between Treville's thighs and breathing *deep* -- 

And breathing deep *again* -- 

"Oh, son..." 

"Sir, I -- I --" And just like that, Treville's bollocks are in Porthos's mouth. "Mmph -- mmmm..." 

"Really, son? That's a *lot* of fur to be considered..." 

Porthos meets his gaze *firmly* -- and sucks *hard*. 

Treville grunts and feels himself heat up... all over. He licks his lips and strokes Porthos's face -- 

His hair -- 

"Is that so, son...?" 

Porthos nods and starts to suck in hard, filthy pulses. 

Treville pants. "I haven't had this..." He growls. "Too long. Too *long*." 

Porthos nods and strokes Treville's thighs with his big, strong hands -- 

Caresses and massages and urges Treville to spread his legs just a *bit* further apart -- 

Treville grins and *happily* obliges, panting more when Porthos nods again and starts using his lips to *work* Treville's bollocks. "Oh, son..." 

Porthos looks to him again, and the question is clear, open, *hungry* -- 

Treville nods back and strokes Porthos's stretched cheek -- "Son... there has never been *anything* -- not since her. Not ever since --" Treville shivers and strokes the corner of Porthos's mouth with his thumb. "Can you suck a little harder, son? Mm? Can you do that for me?" 

*Porthos* shivers, mouth falling open for a moment -- but he closes it again immediately, sucking *viciously* hard --

Treville grunts, hips jerking -- "Just like that, son -- oh --" 

And Porthos is kneeling up, *gripping* Treville's hips, doing his best to haul Treville close enough for a *truly* thorough nuzzle. 

Treville gasps a laugh. "Were -- were your lips not sensitized enough, son?" 

"Mm-mmmm..." And Porthos starts sucking in pulses again -- 

"Nnh -- fuck, son -- mm. Do you like it? Mm?" 

Porthos nods and nuzzles in harder -- 

"Do you like your Daddy's scents? The feel of me on your tongue?" 

Porthos nods and nods and rubs the back of his head against Treville's palm, *urges*, and -- 

"Like this, son...?" And Treville makes his caresses that much more heartfelt, that much more *greedy*, mussing Porthos's curls with a will -- 

Tugging and pulling and -- 

"Mm, no, I --" He *grips* Porthos by the curls. "*Off*." 

Porthos groans in his chest -- and opens his mouth, allowing himself to be tugged away from Treville's groin. "Daddy..." 

"Why don't you get that fur off your tongue..." 

Porthos laughs softly and does just that. "You *could* let me get those bollocks back in my mouth. You know, for a little while longer." 

Treville grins. "Son. Don't you want me to *last* in your mouth...?" 

"Oh -- shit --" 

"Don't you want me to fuck your tight throat until you're *aching* for it?" 

"Nngh -- I. Right, well, one? I already *am*," Porthos says, and laughs harder, licking his lips and staring at Treville's cock *hungrily*. "I -- fuck. It's *bigger* than the glamoured version, Daddy!" 

Treville snorts. "Son. Did you *want* me to show up in the washroom with a raging erection while all the men were just trying to get *clean*?" 

"Bloody *yes* --" 

Treville splutters -- 

"Look --" 

"Son --" 

"*Look*," Porthos says, jabbing his finger at Treville. "I've put a *lot* of time and effort into trying to work out what your cock might *look* like when it was good and hard and slick and *dripping* --" 

"Oh, son." 

"-- and there you were, showing off *only* the glamoured version, which, on top of being entirely bloody *inaccurate* --" 

"I apologize?" 

"-- was always sodding *limp* --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"-- and let me tell you, Daddy, that was incredibly sodding challenging to work with when I was trying to get a good wank going --" 

"I *definitely* apologize --" 

"'s not like there was any way to *tell* how much bigger you'd get, or that you'd get that nice little curve --" 

"Like that, do you?" 

"As a *matter* of fact, I do -- wait." 

"Mm...?" 

Porthos licks his lips -- 

Frowns -- 

Frowns *at* Treville's cock -- 

Treville's cock jerks obligingly -- 

"Fuck, Daddy, *please* tell me to shut it and suck you. 'm too drunk to be allowed to talk this much." 

Treville considers that for a moment...

"*Please* --" 

Treville reaches up with his free hand and -- thoughtfully -- strokes his thoroughly-mussed beard. 

Porthos whines *inspiringly* -- 

Treville rumbles. "Get your hands on me again, son." 

"Oh --" 

"That's right. *Right* on my knot -- but don't squeeze *hard* just yet." 

"No, Daddy?" 

"Not until you're *ready* for me to lose control, son." 

"Fuck... uh. Hunh." 

Treville laughs hard. "A bit conflicted, are we...?" 

"Bloody *yes* -- but also *no*," Porthos says, and cups Treville's bollocks in his other hand, "because we *both* want me to show you what I can *do*." And the last word is slurred around Treville's cock -- 

Licked around it, slurped -- 

Porthos is going down slowly and *messily*, *hotly*, using every last *bit* of that thick, human tongue to make Treville's cock feel slick and delicious and *loved*. 

"*Son* --" 

Porthos hums and nods and slurps wetly, *hungrily*, bobs his head once and again before taking in the head and sucking in hard, hungry -- 

Hungry *pulses* again, and Treville is panting just that quickly -- 

Stroking through Porthos's curls as the heat coils low in his belly -- 

Scratching Porthos's *scalp* as Porthos squeezes Treville's *bollocks* -- 

Sucks *hard* again -- 

*Releases* the squeeze -- 

Treville *gasps* -- 

And Porthos stops sucking and starts bobbing his head again, starts squeezing Treville's bollocks rhythmically, starts dragging hard, rough, *wonderful* calluses over and over Treville's *throbbing* knot -- 

So -- 

And Treville hears himself crooning as he starts to thrust helplessly -- 

As his hand *shakes* with the need to hold Porthos *still*, hold him there, right *there* -- no. Let him move, let him have, let him -- 

Let him drive Treville *mad*, just like this, as he takes more and more and -- 

And Treville thrusts *deep* -- 

Porthos *gulps* -- 

Treville grunts -- 

Porthos *grips* Treville's bollocks -- 

And Treville *yips* as his cock spits slick all over Porthos's hot, sweet mouth, yips and pants and *needs* -- there. Porthos is looking up again, studying him, smiling with his eyes and -- 

Swallowing -- 

And *swallowing* -- 

Taking *all* of him -- 

Treville yips again and growls, swivels his hips -- 

Porthos *bucks*, right there on the floor at Treville's feet, lashes fluttering as he squeezes Treville's bollocks *ruthlessly* -- 

"*Son* --" 

As he squeezes Treville's knot -- 

"*Fuck* --" Treville pulls out and shoves in -- 

*In* -- 

And Porthos nods and squeezes him again -- 

Again and again and Treville is gripping Porthos by the hair and beard again, holding his beautiful son *still* -- 

Holding him and fucking him hard, *hard*, listening for every gulp, every slurp, every *patter* of drool on the hard, wooden floor that Porthos is *writhing* on even now -- 

He -- 

"*Son*," Treville says, and he doesn't have words to go after that, doesn't have anything but his needy, desperate thrusts, the hungry *slam* of his cock in -- 

So *deep* -- 

Porthos *kisses* Treville's knot -- 

Treville *coughs* out a growl and grinds -- 

*Grinds* -- 

So -- but then Porthos starts working Treville's knot and bollocks in viciously *opposite* rhythms, and Treville's aware that he's staring at nothing -- 

No, no, at his son's eyes, his son's beautiful dark eyes -- 

Smiling -- 

Hazed and so -- 

They're rolling *back* -- 

"Stay *with* me!" 

Porthos *bucks* again and opens his eyes wide, *focuses*, *gives* himself to Treville -- and sucks, just a little -- 

Just as much as he *can* with how hard Treville is *reaming* him, it -- 

Treville barks for every suckle, loud and *helpless* as Porthos's eyes widen even more, as he stares in hungry fascination, as he *obviously* does his best to suck even *harder* -- 

"I -- son, I --" 

And then Porthos narrows his eyes *thoughtfully* -- and all but *rakes* Treville's knot with his calluses before squeezing *harder*. It -- 

Treville can't bloody *see* -- 

Can't -- 

Can't *think* -- but he's howling, he's howling the *roof* down as he shoves *deep* into his beautiful son's throat -- 

And fills him. 

Fills him and fills him -- 

His cock is spasming and his spine is on *fire* and he -- 

He can't stop -- 

And then Porthos starts *actively* milking him for more, and Treville staggers on his feet like a *boy* --

Happily, Porthos catches him. 

And then gets Treville's cock *right* back into his mouth. 

That. 

Well...

Treville yips desperate laughter and caresses his son's face, his hopelessly-mussed hair -- 

His wonderfully-sticky beard --

Those hands on his *hips* -- mm. "Son..." 

Porthos looks up at him and smiles brightly, so *happily* -- and Treville's heart is pounding for... any number of reasons, really. 

Certainly, the dog inside him had already had a list made --

Treville hums and caresses that beautiful face just a *little* bit more. "I'm going to want to *talk* to you again eventually, son." 

In answer, Porthos suckles -- not sucks -- Treville's cock until it stops even pretending that it wants to soften. And then he gives Treville a *pointed* look. 

"Give me a moment, son, my eyes are still crossing." 

"Mm." 

"Just -- just a moment..." 

"Mm-hmm..." 

Treville snickers *hard*. "Son." 

Porthos pulls off and grins. "That knot of yours is an *amazing* toy, Daddy." 

"I am *exceedingly* glad you think so --" 

"Though uh." Porthos licks his lips and eyes the knot in question critically. 

"Mm? And come back up here," Treville says, reaching down -- 

Porthos takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up into a slick, warm, and fantastically *messy* kiss. 

Treville spends a small but notable time arguing with himself about the pros and cons of licking even more of his own musk all over Porthos's face and neck and the bit of his chest Treville can reach -- and of *course* into that beard -- and then, of course, does it anyway -- 

Vigorously -- 

"I'm going to get hard every time I pet a dog." 

"Mm. Well, think of it this way, son --" 

"'m *extremely* worried about the next thing to come out of your mouth, Daddy." 

"As well you should be, but?" 

"Right, go on," Porthos says, and *finally* takes off his training shirt -- 

"Thank you," Treville says, and buries his face in Porthos's left armpit for...

A while. 

Just...

"You were *saying*?"

Treville licks and licks -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

And *then* pulls back. "I was saying: You're *going* to get hard when you're petting a good, friendly dog. You're *going* to think of nothing but abject, sticky deviance every time your average, cheerful alaunt does his level best to stick his tongue in your ear --" 

"You're not *helping* --" 

"-- but? When you *do* get hard? When you start to sweat just a little where it counts and all your perfect musk rises and rises?" 

"*What*?" 

"You'll be making that dog very happy, son." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville looks right back. 

So does the dog inside him. 

"Daddy." 

"Son --" 

"*Daddy* --" 

"Son, just think about all the terrible smells dogs have to put up with from their humans every *day*, mm?" 

"Uh." 

"Old piss from the launderers -- and none of it has *any* messages for them, and most of the time it's at least a little diseased and/or mixed with *soap* --"

"*Fuck* --" 

"Rotting tallow for the pomades --" 

"Eurgh -- really -- it -- it smells that *bad*?" 

"Not as bad as the endless flowery shite for the perfumes, which in and of itself wouldn't be *awful*, but perfumers tend to pile one scent on top of another, and then swirl it all about with cheap alcohol. Dogs don't tend to appreciate that, son." 

Porthos stares at something behind his own eyes for a long moment -- then nods firmly with the air of a man making a decision. "Right, well, no perfume for me. I *need* something to keep my hair from going completely mad when we're on campaign and such --" 

"I." 

"No, I know, Daddy, I'll let you pick me something decent --" 

Treville winces and laughs. "No, that's not it, son. I..." He shakes his head and sits on the edge of the desk, urging Porthos to join him so their trousers won't trip them up so badly. 

Eventually they'll have to decide how naked they both want to *be* in this office today, but right now... 

"Daddy?" 

"Mm. If I could, I would spend all day, every day with you at my side." 

"Oh --" 

"Making love, yes, but -- speaking with you, son. Sharing every thought that goes through my ridiculous mind," Treville says, laughing and dragging a hand down over his face. 

"Well, you know, I'd miss Athos -- wait." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos looks at him. "Have you ever... I mean, I know the two of you haven't *fucked* --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"-- but I *also* know your cock bends *decidedly* in this direction, Daddy." 

Treville snorts and grins. "That it does, son. That it does, indeed." 

"So --" 

"My inclinations are as follows: Show me a brilliant, loving, open-*minded*, and funny person and I'm already on my way there. Put a blade in that person's hands and I'm lathering my poor horse to get there *faster* --" 

*Porthos* coughs -- 

"Have my *dog* *approve* of that person -- and of that person's overall fitness to be a part of our *pack* --" 

"Oh -- *oh*." And Porthos licks his lips again and nods slowly. "Right, so... wait, no, I'm even more confused now. Does the dog *not* want Athos in your pack? Or..." 

"Athos has been my pack since he was *Olivier*, son. Before then -- since he was barely anything more than the entirely wonderful collection of scents Marie-Angelique wafted around every time she turned just *so*," Treville says, flaring his nostrils at a memory. 

"I think I would've loved to smell *that*." 

"You truly would've, son. It was... incredible. And the memories of those scents -- as well as of the scents which came from Olivier's crib, nursery, playroom, and so on as he aged -- are the sort of thing that tends to make even a man as fundamentally *deviant* as me... pause. No matter what sorts of thoughts and *dreams* are actually rolling through my mind at any given time," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow.

Porthos nods. "Got it, Daddy. I... and -- your mate? What were *her* scents like when she was pregnant with your son?" 

Treville licks his lips and flares his nostrils again and again and -- no. He stops. "There never has been and there never will be anything which smells better than *that*, son." 

Porthos nods. "My Mum..." 

"Mm?" 

"I -- no. *You* were going to tell me something. Something... I don't know. Weren't we actually talking about fixing things so that I don't smell *horrible* to you *or* your dog?" 

"I always want to know what's on *your* mind, son, one, and two, I don't think you're actually physically capable of smelling *bad* to me --" 

"Well, I truly wish it didn't, Daddy, but that sounded like a *dare* --" 

Treville snorts. "Son." 

Porthos grins at him. "C'mon, tell me -- at least you can pick a decent pomade for me. What do *you* use when we're on manoeuvres and such?" 

"Beeswax with just a soupcon of my own semen --" 

Porthos splutters --

Treville hums. "I have a collection of tins which are *all* offensive to me, but each one is less offensive than others at various times. So." He shrugs. "I much prefer using *all* of them -- again, each at various times -- to ease the way when I'm fucking myself blind." 

Porthos looks *beautifully* scrambled for that, which... 

Is just the sort of thing to stoke the fires of a man's hopes, really. For now, though: "What stopped me, before, was a moment of the man in me, who loves absolutely everything about men with longer hair -- no matter *what* texture that hair actually is, though I will confess an *enduring* fondness for *red* hair of varying shades -- being at war with the *Captain* in me, who periodically dreams of attacking every last one of you with the sharpest shears he can *find*." 

Porthos coughs again -- 

Licks his *lips* -- 

Takes a *long* look at Treville's own -- very -- short hair... "I uh. I always admired that about you, Daddy." 

"Mm?" 

"That -- *grim* determination of yours to tell fashion to sod right off." 

Treville laughs quietly. "Don't think *too* well of me for that, son." 

"Why not, eh?" 

Treville dreams, for a moment, of his father... 

His beautiful, wonderful, *giant* of a father -- 

He grins.

"Those looked like *extremely* happy memories..." 

"They were. I was thinking of my father, who *won* nobility for this family because he wasn't just a good enough soldier to actually catch the attention of all the piss-pants nobility and royalty running about making life *difficult* for soldiers, he was an *incredible* soldier who could, at times, even pretend to be a *politician* -- but he never, ever did with the people who *mattered*."

"Nice, *that*." 

"Oh, yes. *He* never fucked about with fashion -- unless he *had* to for the sake of the regiment. *His* hair only got long enough to hold onto when he was on campaign for *months* at a time. And..." Treville laughs and strokes his beard again. "You'd find his beard and moustache just a *trifle* familiar, were you to look at a portrait." 

"Oh..." 

"Mm. And, on top of being the man -- the *person* -- I admired most for a *significant* portion of my life, and the person whom I wanted to grow *into* for..." Treville smiles wryly at his son. "I'll be honest, Porthos: there are many, many times when I doubt -- sincerely -- that I've grown into an adult, at all." 

"*Daddy* --" 

"If I *haven't*... well. I still have a *chance* to grow into being *him*." 

Porthos frowns for that, deep and troubled. 

"No, son? You've never caught yourself wanting to be someone other than who you are...?" 

A blush for that -- and a *rueful* smile. "You. I've um. I've wanted to grow up to be *you*." 

Treville blushes hard enough that he feels like he's *strangling* on it -- 

"I *really* can't believe you didn't see that coming, *Daddy*." 

"I." 

"I mean --" 

"In my defense," Treville -- tries. He tries. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows at him. 

Treville licks his lips again. 

"You don't have a single blessed thing to go after that, do you." 

"Not a one, son. Let's... let's be ourselves, shall we?" 

Porthos wags his head back and forth a few times. 

"... let's be ourselves, *please*?" 

"'m still going to talk like you sometimes, Daddy." 

"I --" Treville stops -- 

Closes his mouth -- 

*Thinks* about it -- "Technically?" 

"I'm talking like your Dad, aren't I." 

"That you are, son," Treville says, sighing happily. "All the bloody time." 

Porthos snorts and punches his arm. "Arse."


	4. In which Porthos is too shy, Treville is not that drunk, and blood is shed.

"That I am. Now, please, tell me something about *you*." 

"I..."

"Mm? Wait. Are you *shy*?"

Porthos *looks* at him.

Treville licks his lips. "Right you are, son. I will commence being a kind, loving, and overall *supportive* father *immediately* --" 

Porthos *snorts* -- "I just..." He shakes his head. "I already know you're going to give me one of your *glares* for this, Daddy -- or worse, one of your *disappointed* looks --" 

"Son --" 

"But your life is just as huge and grand and wild and *colourful* as *you* are --" 

"And you think yours is *worth* less, son...?"

"Fuck, I get the look *and* the little dangerous voice?" 

"Son." 

"Before we proceed, I would *like* to point out that the little dangerous voice has featured *prominently* in my more *vigorous* dreams --" 

"Be serious with me now, son," Treville says, reaching up to cup Porthos's beautiful face -- 

To turn him so that they can face each other more fully -- 

To give himself the old, *old* worry in those eyes. "Oh, son. I can see..." He shakes his head. "It's only reasonable." 

"*Yes* --" 

"Shh. Your life -- every day of it in the Court of bloody *Miracles* -- has taught you to look at the people who live their lives *outside* of that place as something *other* than you. Something -- fundamentally -- different. You're too brilliant and strong and *right* to *let* yourself think that all those other people are *better* --" 

"I --" 

"But that doesn't stop the small, awful voice at the heart of you from asking the *question* from time to time. Does it." 

Porthos winces -- swallows. "No, sir -- Daddy --" 

"Shh. Call me what you need to call me, son -- *always*. And I daresay that right this moment I'm sounding a *lot* like your Captain." And Treville raises his eyebrow again. 

Porthos takes a breath, shuddering a little. "Yes -- yes, Daddy. And -- I need that. I need you to be my Daddy," he says, cheeks aflame. "I need -- to believe that." 

Treville strokes Porthos's cheek with his thumb. "You'll always be my boy. You'll always be my *son*. And I will do everything in my *power* to make you *feel* that." 

"Please. I." 

"Mm?" 

"I just..." Porthos swallows and looks down. "My Mum, you know. She told me about mating. Before she died." 

Treville blinks -- 

*Regroups* -- 

"You told me... she died when you were quite young..." 

"Five, Daddy," Porthos says, and there's something -- 

A shimmer -- 

A *wall*, and Treville has to break through it, has to -- 

There's something on the other side he needs to -- 

"-- didn't understand all of it. Not at the time," Porthos says, frowning deeply. 

"Oh, son, how could you have?" Treville caresses Porthos's face, strokes the curve of his ear... "But tell me, mm? Tell me everything." 

"Yes, Daddy. It's -- it's not anything -- I mean. I just. I just want you to know me. And -- her," Porthos says, and *then* looks up, eyes wide and darker than their colour would account for. "I want... I've always wanted the most important people in my life to have each other, Daddy. In -- any way possible." 

"Oh, son, I feel the *same*. You'll have to *muzzle* me to keep me from giving you my lost pack, and -- mm. I will *always* want to know everything about your mother *and* the family you had coming up." 

That makes Porthos smile, just a little, and nod. "Yes, Daddy. She -- Mum told me about mating. About -- she said it made everything *simple*. She said all the questions about what was right or wrong, what was appropriate or inappropriate, what made you *look* good or bad -- all of it. All of it suddenly boiled down to *one* question -- not even. One *statement*," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows.

Treville nods once. "'There is nothing I would not do for -- or *with* -- my mate.'" 

Porthos stares at him for long moments.

"Son?" 

"She said it -- I mean. She said it *exactly* that way." 

"It's a universal truth among mates, son. But... mm. I was remembering my Amina-love, and a conversation we were all having among my pack in the earliest days of us *being* a pack..." Treville grins. "Reynard was a little bit slower than the rest of us men to figure out that women could be as reprehensibly -- and shamelessly -- deviant as any man -- or *worse*, and he'd been *quizzing* Amina on what he knew of my various fixations, attempting to get her to show a pause, or at least a moment of *hesitation*. Instead..." Treville laughs. "My Amina-love taught us *all* a few things about deviance that night -- and many, many others."

Porthos grins, soft and warm and more than a little proud of a woman he'll never know. "I like that. I -- she sounds incredible." 

"She was. She was. And your own mother sounds truly beautiful, son." 

"She..." Porthos swallows. "She taught me -- she was the *first* person who taught me knife-fighting, Daddy. She had a blade made for my hand when I was *four*." 

Treville blinks -- no, carry on. "She took your safety *seriously*." 

"That's *right*. And um. She was a strong woman, you know? A *hard* woman a lot of the time, but still..." He shakes his head. "She was funny. *All* the time." 

Treville grins. "You already know how I feel about that..." 

"That I *do*, Daddy," Porthos says, and grins right back. "She had -- just. A *quick* tongue. A *dirty* one, too, for all that I was too young to understand half -- or more -- of the things she was saying at the time. I remembered them, and years later they would come back to me, and I'd just start laughing like an *arsehole* out of *nowhere*, and have to explain to, you know, my mates about the time when my Mum had told off the butcher for trying to sell her sausages with enough casing for a blacksmith but only enough *meat* for an apprentice."

Treville chokes -- 

"*See*? I spent *years* wondering if blacksmiths just really *liked* the chewy bits --" 

"Oh --" 

"If it had something to do with all the time they spent in hot little rooms --" 

"Oh, son -- I ." 

"You're trying not to laugh, aren't you, Daddy." 

Treville licks his lips. "I..." 

"I can *see* your eyes twinkling and sparkling and all, Daddy." 

"Mm, right you are, son," Treville says, and snickers until he can breathe again. "I... did she..." 

"Mm?" 

"Were there *gestures* involved in the sausage incident, son? I'm just curious." 

"*Absolutely*, Daddy. And let me just say -- either the blacksmiths Mum knew were *truly* impressive individuals --" 

Treville snickers *hard* -- 

"-- or that was a lot of pig intestine." 

"Oh, son, I want to have *known* her!" 

Porthos smiles for that, soft and warm again -- 

Soft and *open* -- 

And he nods. "I'll -- I'll give her to you. Everything. Everything I *can*." 

Treville grins and strokes Porthos's cheek again. "Thank you for that, son. What was her name, mm?" 

"Oh -- Amina. She apparently took the name du Vallon pretty late in life. I don't know what name she had before that. She never told me." 

And there is -- something. 

Treville is *looking* at Porthos, and he knows -- 

Porthos is *speaking*, isn't he? Treville had asked a *question*. An *important* question, a question he needs an answer to -- 

A question that -- 

That...

"... Daddy? Is there something wrong?" 

And Treville becomes aware that he's frowning at Porthos, frowning with confusion and frustration and that's not right, that's not -- 

He can't make Porthos think -- but. 

But there was something. 

There was something and there *is* something, there has *been* something --

"What..." 

"Daddy? What's wrong?" 

Treville growls and gives himself a shake. "I don't... remember the question that I *just* *asked* you." 

Porthos blinks -- and then smiles wryly. "Is this where I point out how drunk we are...?" 

"Son, I am... an exceedingly powerful earth-mage. The All-Mother does not *let* me get that kind of drunk before She yanks my *lead*." 

"Uhh..." 

"And? I daresay *you* remember the question I asked *very* well. Don't you." 

"Well..." 

"You do." 

"Yeah, but --" 

"You do. And..." Treville narrows his eyes. "It was about your past, because that's what we've been discussing. It was about your past, just as every other time my mind and attention has *skipped* today we've been discussing *something* about --" But. 

But Treville has to stop, because it hasn't just been about the past. 

It hasn't just been random *memories*. It. 

He's panting now, watching a flood, a *cascade* of memories -- 

*Amina* -- 

"Daddy? Is it happening again? Are you --" 

"Son. Son -- *who is your mother*?" And Treville is standing, turning -- 

Cupping Porthos's *shoulders* -- 

Searching his face and trying to see -- 

But.

There's that -- that *something*. 

That -- shimmering wall of *something* instead of Porthos's voice, Porthos's wonderful *voice*, and now that Treville knows it's *there* -- 

Knows that it's not his *imagination* -- 

He knows exactly what it is.

"-- Daddy? Daddy, what's *wrong*? You're -- fuck, that's a bloody *awful* sound you're making --" 

"You're my son." 

"I -- yes. *Yes*, and I *always* will be --" 

"Wait. Wait, I -- I think I know... how to make us *both* see exactly what's happening," Treville says, and he's panting, sweating -- 

*Shaking*, but he's also thinking -- and remembering lessons in blood-magery he'd picked up everywhere he *could* over the years, but especially from Jason Blood. 

He'd give anything to have the man here right now instead of wherever he's fucked off to in the interest of scholarship or warring *without* Treville -- 

He'd give anything to have his *iron* strength and *support* -- no.

*Almost* anything, because this -- 

His *son*, and he'll be calling for help as soon as he bloody *can*. But for now --

For now he takes his son's -- his *son's* -- strong arm in his hand. "I'm about to bite you, son. I -- we need to share blood. *Right* now."

For a long moment, Porthos only stares at him -- *into* him. There are thoughts and questions and everything else blooming behind those dark eyes, but in the end he only nods. 

He trusts Treville a lot more than Treville has ever trusted himself. He -- 

His *son* -- 

Treville forces back a snarl and bites, shallow and as gently as he can while still breaking the skin. Porthos tastes as wonderful, as perfect, as *delicious* -- 

Treville is groaning *helplessly* -- 

Shaking like a *leaf* -- but he can focus, lap to contaminate and *bind* as much as to heal -- 

"Oh -- oh, I can -- feel --" 

You feel me, son... 

(Shit --) 

You. You finally feel *me*, Treville says, reaching deep within his boy and -- there. All of the power Porthos always should've had. All of the *connections* to *him* that had been sealed-away and *hidden* -- 

(D-Daddy -- Daddy, *what* --) 

You're my son, Treville says, licking one more time over the small bite-scar and standing straight. 

Looking into -- into Porthos's beautiful *eyes*, and now there's no part of him which can't see that they're Amina's, only softer. 

Wide in this moment. 

*Panicked* -- 

Treville cups Porthos's shoulders to steady him -- 

"*Don't*."

Treville winces and steps *back* --

"*Fuck* -- wait --- I -- I meant -- don't touch me like *that*." 

"Son...?" 

"Don't -- not like. Not like we *haven't* made love, Daddy," Porthos says, and his eyes are so wounded, so *hurt* -- 

Treville growls and *yanks* Porthos in close, strokes him and pets him, sniffs at his throat and behind his ear -- 

*Nips* his ear, and it's just as adorably small and round as his mother's had been -- 

And his mouth -- 

The shape of his *face* -- 

"Please. *Please*, I -- I know you can *see* it all now -- I can bloody hear your *thoughts* --" 

"Shh, I'm here, son. I'm *here*, and -- we'll work it through --" 

"You couldn't see, or hear -- *we* couldn't... And you were saying her name. Mum's name. Over and over..." 

Treville shudders. "I was."

"'s just -- I remember that I kept not being able to *hear* it, or *remember* it, but I didn't want to ask again. I was too embarrassed, too -- I didn't want to *fail*, Daddy." 

"Oh, son... you're making me want to murder Guillou all over again. I... will be putting my rapier to *brutal* use as soon as possible." 

"Oh," Porthos says, and stills all over -- and then takes a *shivering* breath. "Will that -- it'll hurt him more? Because he's trapped in there?" 

"That it will, son," Treville says, and licks the space behind Porthos's ear. "He's suffering every moment of every day just being in there --" 

"*Good* --" 

"-- and the suffering gets that much more acute when I take the sword into battle." 

"I... am *extremely* happy about that, Daddy," Porthos says, and laughs softly. "But where did you learn to *do* things like that?" 

"Mm. You've a certain immortal British blood-mage -- though he certainly doesn't *limit* himself to that sort of magery -- to thank for that, son. Jason also put a *lot* of time and effort into trying to help me *find* you --" Treville growls and squeezes his son harder --

Porthos grunts and squeezes him back. "'m here, Daddy. I won't go *anywhere*." 

"Son..." 

"But um..." 

"Tell me. Ask me." 

Porthos takes a *somewhat* straitened breath -- but doesn't try to get Treville to loosen his grip -- 

Thankfully -- 

Porthos *laughs* breathlessly. "Mum taught me to appreciate the *aggressive* cuddles, Daddy --" 

"Oh -- she bruised me *violently* on a daily *basis*, son." 

"Because she was cuddling you or because you were an *arse*?" 

Treville pulls back enough to grin into his beautiful boy's eyes. "We didn't believe in limiting ourselves, son." 

Porthos snorts. "*Fine*. But I was going to ask... uh." 

"Mm?" 

"*What* battles are you fighting these days? I mean..." 

Treville laughs like the arsehole he will always, always be, ignoring the few tears that fall, and licks Porthos's ear. "The *left*-handed war, son. I could smell *you'd* had your hand in it from the second you walked into my office..." 

"Shit -- but. I mean, yeah, I helped Yejide -- she's the death-mage who helped Mum and me in the Court, and then me and the other kids when Mum was gone -- with her workings and such when I was coming up," Porthos says, pulling back and un-self-consciously scrubbing at his own cheeks with the back of his hand. 

His *son* -- but... "Did you, now." 

"Yes, Daddy. I uh... I know a *bit* about handling myself around the varying sorts of undead." 

Treville sighs with helpless pleasure. 

"I've a question for you." 

"*Ask*, son." 

"Right, when you sigh like that -- do you have any *idea* how *violent* you sound?" 

Treville blinks -- 

Thinks about it...

"It truly is my 'all's right with the world' sigh, son." 

"I know *that*, Daddy," Porthos says, and the amusement in his eyes is sharing space with an exceedingly heartfelt request for Treville to leave serious thoughts behind for the time being. 

He can listen. "*But*, son...?" 

Porthos jerks his chin at him. "You *only* ever sigh like that when someone you like says or does something that -- at the *very* least -- implies stacks and stacks of corpses." And Porthos gives him a *look*. 

Treville smiles... ruefully. "Does it help, at all, to know that I sighed like that all the *time* with your mother, son?" 

"Well, being as how *I* got to see how many weapons and such she stashed in her skirts and every-bloody-where else before she left for work of a morning?"

Treville sighs helplessly -- 

"Yes, it bloody *helps*. You *arse*."


	5. The dog is definitely the only inebriate in this story.

In the end, they decide -- somewhat regrettably -- to put their clothes *all* the way on, or back on, as the case may be -- 

Treville -- and the dog -- truly had been hoping that Porthos would spend much more time *sweating* in their accursed little box -- 

The dog is of the opinion that Porthos had failed *all* of them by not bringing a pile of sweaty, musky clothes for the office as part of his introductory interview -- 

The dog is still very, *very* drunk, and --

And Treville gives himself some time with Porthos's shirt. Just -- 

"*Daddy*." 

"Just a moment, I --" He chews on an especially sweaty -- 

"Daddy, are you..." 

"Mm?" 

"Wait, this is where I have to be patient for the dog in you, right?" 

Treville chews a bit more -- 

Licks -- 

Licks his lips -- 

Rubs the now-dampened shirt over his *beard* -- 

And sighs. 

"All set?" 

"Almost," Treville says, and rubs the shirt *between* his fingers, so that once his riding gloves are on, the scents will blend nicely with his own sweat and leather. 

"You're sodding amazing." 

"I'm a dog, son. And -- that brings me to your question: *I'm* a dog... and so is the dog who lives inside me." 

"Oh." 

"And so are *you* --" 

"What." 

"And so is the dog that the *All*-Mother -- who would truly like to see both of us at our earliest convenience --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"She's sending you a spirit-dog, son. You're a shifter now." 

Porthos looks at him. 

Treville thinks about it... "Should I have braced you for that?" 

"Maybe... maybe with less of you rolling about in my sweaty clothes?" 

"Son, we'd both notice if I were rolling in you --" 

"You know what I bloody *mean*!" 

Treville snickers and tosses Porthos his shirt. "I'll train you in this, son. I'll train you in *all* of this. It won't be terrible." 

"But..." And Porthos's gesture is broad and speaking. "How the bloody hell am I supposed to be even a little bit subtle?" 

"Well... you're not." 

"*Daddy*." 

"The men -- your *brothers* -- will know. The people you make *love* with will know. Your *pack* will know. And that's just as it should be, son," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow.

Porthos blinks -- 

Takes a breath -- 

And smiles, bright and sunny and just a little rueful. "Right you are, Daddy." 

Treville nods and goes back to neatening himself up enough for public consumption, pulling out the beard-comb for the fine work -- 

Porthos snorts. 

"Yes, son?" 

"I can't *help* but wonder how much spend -- male, female, canine, undead, demonic, and otherwise -- you've washed out of that little comb over the years, Daddy," Porthos says, attacking his own beard with deft fingers. 

"You think I *wash* it?" 

Porthos splutters *hard* -- 

Treville grins. "Let's get moving, son. I *need* to get you back to my rooms -- I have things to show you." 

Porthos shivers and nods -- 

And they damned well make their escape. 

Treville feels not one *iota* of guilt about ordering his quartermasters and lieutenants to, alternately, terrorize and *deflect* everyone who comes looking for him this afternoon, but of course there is Athos to be considered. 

Porthos's *brother*, and oh -- 

Oh, but there's a part of him which only wants to sit somewhere quiet and dark with something which smells strongly of Porthos between his paws -- 

Sit and watch every piece, every dream, every *wish* fall into *place*. 

There *is* more perfection than the fact that Athos and Porthos are already as close as brothers should always be, but that's just it: It is an endless *cascade* of perfection that starts with the fact that he has been allowed *this* -- a son with a heart as hungry and open and wild as his own -- 

A heart as ready to *accept* -- 

But. 

*But*. 

All he truly knows, in this moment where he is smiling at his beautiful son and his beautiful and *stunned* godson, is that Porthos categorically refuses to pretend that they have not been the people who they've been. 

That they have not touched, and loved -- made love.

Treville doesn't growl, and fights back the urge to flare his nostrils for *every* remembered scent.

He has an *honest* son -- just the way his Amina-love would've *demanded* in every *moment* -- and he will give his son an honest *father*. He'll hold *nothing* back, should Porthos ever show anything *resembling* an interest.

He -- he will *remember* the man he was for his pack. For his *mate*. For *himself*, when that was someone he knew and understood just as well *as* he knew and understood his loves. This -- 

There's so *much*, and so much of it is a tangled *mess* -- up to and *including* all the parts of it which revolve around how Treville and the rest of the pack dealt with all the issues of *parenting*.

He'll still give it all to his son. But he will *also* give his son time, and room, and -- 

Fuck, everything. *Everything*. 

But. 

Athos just asked *how* they'd figured it all out, and -- and Treville has the most honest son on *all* the spheres, because now, in the wake of Porthos's honesty, all three of them are as red as Treville's cock. 

"So, you know," Porthos says, as unconcerned as a feather on the wind, "that was a bit of a shock." 

Athos's eyebrows have fled to the far reaches of the north, beyond his fringe. "I. Imagine so..." 

Treville clears his throat --

Porthos and Athos come to *attention* -- fuck. 

"All right, I didn't mean to do *that* to you boys --" 

"We have bloody *reflexes*, Daddy!" 

Athos looks a bit glassy-eyed... 

"Son. You might. You might want to call me that in a *somewhat* quieter voice when we're in public." 

"Oh. Uh. Right. Sorry about that." 

"I -- and my needy cock -- forgive you, son." 

Porthos splutters -- 

Athos pulls a bloody *flask* out of his shirt -- 

"*Athos*!" 

"It is, I assure you, only for emergencies, sir," Athos says, and drinks -- 

And drinks -- 

And *drinks* -- and breathes. And tucks the flask away again. "There. I feel much less in need of sanity. You were saying?" 

"You know, Daddy, you can't actually call him out for his drunkenness *today*," Porthos says, helpfully. 

"Ah, yes, I thought I recognized that smell on your breath, Porthos --" 

"It really is just cock at this point, brother. And, well, spend." 

Athos looks at him. 

And then looks at Treville. 

And then licks his lips. "I simultaneously feel infinitely better about my own deviance and lack of moral fibre than I ever have --" 

"-- and hopelessly steeped in the most reprehensible filth imaginable, son?" 

Athos looks considering for a moment -- 

Narrows his *eyes* thoughtfully -- 

"Yes, sir. Quite." 

Treville hums. "Do give my love to Thomas, mm...?"

If anything, Athos blushes even *hotter* -- 

"Fuck, Daddy, are you trying to *kill* him? He's our best man out there, y'know." 

Treville laughs hard and ruffles Athos's hair the way he'd *rarely* done with the far more self-conscious Olivier. 

"*Sir* --" 

"Never forget that I love you, mm? Never forget..." He shakes his head and grins. "My boy. My *heart*. I know *exactly* how long you want to stay here training tonight -- and every night -- but spare some time for your *pack* in the near future, mm? I've tales for all of you. All of *us*." 

"Oh." And Athos looks to Porthos -- 

Porthos smiles hopefully and nods -- 

And Athos takes a breath and nods back. "I'll -- I'll let Thomas know. He's been quite focused on ruining Richelieu's secretary for you." 

"The reports have been *wildly* entertaining -- and, of course, viscerally distressing."

For that, Athos smiles like a boy far happier than *Olivier* had ever managed to be. "I'll tell him you said that, sir," he says, and then sobers himself at speed, steps back, and waits to be dismissed. 

Treville laughs softly and damned well plays his part. 

And then he leads his son to the stables.


	6. We can only be the people we are.

"You know, a part of me is stunned *just* because I get to be your *escort* tonight, Daddy." 

Treville thinks about that -- 

Thinks about how all of this might have felt for *him* with *Laurent* -- 

Shit. "I... you have to let me know if and *when* I'm running you over, son --" 

"Nah." 

"Son --" 

"Absolutely not, Daddy," Porthos says, checking their perimeter with a critical and expert eye -- 

"All right, tell me *why* --"

"'s your nature, I think. Running people over. *Grinding* people right into your wheel-ruts," Porthos says, thoughtful and low as he strokes his Léon's neck. "I've never minded it, and I still don't now. I bloody *love* it, as a matter of fact," he says, and turns to face Treville again. "We all do, you know." 

"I..." 

"We do, Daddy. You have to know I'm not the only man in the regiment who wants to *be* you when I grow up." 

Treville is flushing again, and -- "I... am fighting back the *need* to share some of Laurent's exceedingly cogent lectures on the nature and purposes of command." 

Porthos grins a little sharply. "Keep fighting, Daddy. We *both* know you hated those lectures just as much back then as *I* would now." 

"Mm. And that they made *just* as little difference --" Treville gives himself something of an *internal* shake to keep from disquieting Lisle even a little and whuffs out a breath. "Son, I... you *have* to know how badly I need to make this -- all of this -- easier on you." 

Porthos's smile gets much, much softer. "I do, Daddy. I do. It's only..." 

"Mm?" 

"Well -- it's like this: *Just* like -- like *before*, I need you to be you, Daddy," Porthos says, and focuses on the rowdy drunks getting an early start on their evening for long enough that they can both ascertain that the worst the men will do is pollute the night air a little more and *sing* loudly. 

Treville hums. "You were saying, son...?" 

Porthos snorts and shakes his head. "I feel like I was looking back in time at you just then, Daddy." 

"Don't be ridiculous, son -- your mother wasn't there helping all of us get into random fights." 

Porthos chokes -- "I -- *Daddy* --" 

"She was a *deeply* belligerent drunk --" 

"I." 

"All the time, son." 

"But..." 

"It was *magnificent* to behold," Treville says, and sighs happily. 

Porthos smiles crookedly. "I never -- um. I never saw that. I never saw her drunk." 

Treville inhales sharply -- "I'll show you, son. I'll show you everything; I promise." 

"Thank you. Thank you, Daddy." 

"You don't have to --" 

"I think. I think it's always better to thank people for things. Whether or not they would've given them to you anyway. I think it's always better to let people know exactly how much you appreciate them. While you have them," Porthos says, and he's not smiling anymore. He -- 

"Oh, son... you're absolutely right," Treville says, and lets his parade of dead pass through him.

Porthos bites his lip --

Stops that -- 

And nods. "I -- anyway. I was saying -- I need you to be you. *All* the time. Because if you ever stopped with me, especially to treat me with kid gloves --" 

"Son --" 

"-- then it would feel like I had stopped being *worth* the real you. Like *you* had stopped *thinking* that I was worth the real you." 

Treville growls *hard*, making Lisle shiver and stamp a little -- 

"Right, and I -- I'm apologizing to *Lisle* first and foremost --" 

"*Son* -- wait," Treville says, and breathes -- 

And breathes -- 

And breathes himself down into someone who *can* settle his mount --

Which he does -- 

With the slow *care* Lisle absolutely deserves. 

Porthos nods in approval. "Your Lisle is a really sweet girl. Everyone says so." 

Treville laughs quietly. "She's the sweetest, kindest, most gentle horse I have *ever* known... and that is *precisely* why I chose her when Laurent forced me to take over as Captain." 

"Uhh... but she wasn't the sort of horse you rode before, right. That was obvious with only a *little* bit of thought --"

"That's *right*, son. You'll meet my Éventreur, my Meurtriére --" 

"Um." 

"They're both living out their retirement on my lands outside of Paris, and I ride them as much as I *possibly* can, but especially when Athos and Thomas are out to visit." 

Porthos's frown is pained in the precise way people tend to look *every* time Treville talks about his favourite horses, so all is well enough. 

"In any event, son -- Lisle was the necessary *political* choice for a man who was about to become far more of a courtier than a soldier, and, more to the point, a courtier to the sort of royalty who knows just as much about being a soldier as *I* know about being a bird in the bloody *sky*." 

"I -- right." Porthos winces. "I guess Louis's horses are uh... showy?" 

"Not even that. Not really. Of course he *owns* some beautiful horses here and there, and the *Queen* is an excellent rider when she can get a moment to herself, but..." Treville shakes his head. "Louis has neither the strength nor the aptitude nor the *drive* to handle the sorts of horses which *aren't* bred for their temperament far more than they're bred for their *look*."

That gets another frown -- 

Nearly a *scowl* -- 

Treville hums. "Yes, son...?" 

"Right, no, 'm not going to *actually* commit treason while *escorting* my Captain home --" 

Treville snickers. 

"And um. We were talking about other things," Porthos says, and gives him a soft look. A *hopeful* look. 

Treville... "Oh, son. You have no idea how much of every day I spent wanting to *pet* you --"

"I -- me? Or the son you'd lost?"

"You're the same -- no. I see what you're saying," Treville says, and draws himself up a little. Reins himself *in* -- 

"Do you?" 

"I do, son. And..." Treville thinks about it, really *thinks* about it -- 

*Forces* himself to look at the *question* of his son and *both* of their pasts -- 

He winces. 

"Daddy...?" 

Treville licks his lips. "Let's check our perimeter *thoroughly* so that, after, we can have a few spare moments to meet each other's *gaze*," he says, and gets to it. 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says in a subdued voice, and Treville knows he's damned well doing his job. 

It doesn't take long for Treville to be certain that the threats on these streets -- Paris is never *entirely* free of threats -- are neither severe nor, at the moment, aimed at *them*. 

It doesn't take long for Porthos to start searching *him* -- he can feel it. 

Treville damned well meets his son's gaze. "You're two people. I -- the son I spent the past *generation* mourning and *aching* for *and* the son who walked into my life eight months ago and promptly destroyed every trace of equilibrium I *thought* I'd gained."

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "I -- that's what I thought," he says, and turns back to the road. 

"How do *you* feel about that, son?" 

"Well, uh." Porthos laughs ruefully. "That has a lot to do with how *you* feel about it, Daddy." 

"Son --" 

"It -- think about it, Daddy. Just -- it's just -- I don't think I *can* be two people."

"I --" But Treville stops and, yes, *thinks* -- 

And nods. 

"You're right." 

"I. Yeah?" 

Treville shudders and smiles at Porthos ruefully. "The part of me which wants to *make* you into the son I've been mourning for two *decades* --" 

"I -- I want to *try* --" 

"Shh. Don't." 

Porthos winces. "Fuck, Daddy, you have to know that I just don't -- I can't *fail* you." 

Treville growls. "No. You *can't*. *You* can't, son," he says, "because the beginning *and* end of what I need from you? What I *want* from you?" 

"'m. I'm *listening*, Daddy." 

"I want *you*, son. Everything that makes you who you are. Everything that *made* you who you *were*. Everything which is in the *process* of making you who you *will* be. I want that and I need that, and -- oh, son, you've let me in *just* enough that I don't think I'll be able to let you go without *taking* it." 

"Oh." 

"Do you understand?" 

Porthos swallows and stares at him for a long moment -- 

*Studies* him -- 

And then turns to take in their perimeter. 

Treville does just the same, careful and sure as he *can* be -- 

"I need..." 

Treville shivers and turns *back*. "Tell me, son." 

"You were going to -- you'd started to say something about *making* me into the boy you've been grieving for for all these years." 

Treville takes a breath. "That I did." 

"I --" 

"This, son: There's a part of me which wants to take all my fantasies, all my hopes, all my *endless* dreams of you suddenly appearing around that corner, or in that tavern, or in that *brothel* --" 

Porthos coughs -- 

"All those *dreams*, son. Every last sweet and lengthy and *heady* and *emotional* reunion," Treville says, narrowing his eyes and... conjuring, entirely without magic. "They all went a certain way, son." 

"Did they, now." 

Treville smiles wryly. "Oh, yes. And that way...? Was *not* this way," Treville says, and looks to his beautiful, beautiful son. 

Porthos blinks. "I -- guess I could've figured *that* out with a little thought, too." 

Treville shrugs. "Perhaps, perhaps not. You would've been working against a *vast* amount of deviance." 

"Yeah, but..." Porthos gives himself a shake -- 

Léon whickers and stamps *immediately* -- 

"Oh -- shit -- I didn't mean to --" Porthos makes a low and frustrated and *animal* sound in his throat -- 

Léon's *ears* twitch -- 

"Make human noises, son. Human words will help you do that. Don't worry about being profound just yet. 'Inane but soothing' will help your Léon start getting used to the fact that there's now a shifter on his back -- especially if you reach, a little, for a connection between the two of you." 

"Oh -- like..." And Porthos reaches for his Léon *exactly* like he'd been trained in this sort of thing -- and trained *well* -- long before Treville ever could have known him. The expenditure of magic is *obvious* -- but easy and deft enough that there's not one bit of waste. 

Treville -- breathes. "That's just right, son. Now..." 

"That's right, boy... that's good... just settle right down for me... good boy. You're an excellent bloody horse, and right attractive in an equine way..."

Treville laughs quietly -- 

"I mean, 'm not a filly or anything, but I've seen them looking you over, mate... yeah, that's right..." 

And Léon is stepping lively -- and trying to move in on poor Lisle, who seems to be thinking of biting him. 

Treville dutifully rides Lisle just a *little* further away from her new paramour --

"Well, that's broken his heart, Daddy." 

"Lisle is a bride of Christ, son. Now --" 

Porthos splutters --

"You have to be respectful of these things --" 

Porthos snorts hard. "You *arse*. What were we *talking* about?" 

Treville grins and leads them onto his street. "I was explaining to you that it was reasonable for you to assume that my fantasies of regaining my long lost son were just as deviant as I am." 

"Right, and I *could* go with that, but I actually know you now. A little, anyway --" 

"I want." Treville licks his lips. "I want you to know everything about me." 

"I know *that*. Which -- yeah, part of that *is* all sticky and deviant, but the rest? Is all about you doing everything in your *power* to make sure I *understand* you --" 

"*Yes* --" 

"And I *know* you would've been like that in all your dreams and such --" 

"Yes, I --" 

"*Just* like you were with *me* the entire time we've known each other." 

Treville blinks --

Turns -- 

And Porthos is blushing hot under his brown skin -- but he's not backing down one iota. He. 

He's sitting his horse straight and tall -- 

And, after he checks their perimeter again, he looks to Treville with wide and *steady* eyes. 

"Oh, son..." 

"You -- you *did*." 

"I did." 

"I mean --" 

"You're absolutely right. Every chance I could reasonably *give* myself to share myself with you -- and *many* chances which weren't reasonable, at all --" 

"*Yes*, Daddy. You -- and I wanted so much more. And you made me think... that maybe I could have it. That -- that if I just figured out the right thing to do, or the right words to say --" 

"You didn't have to do a bloody *thing*, son --" 

"-- that I'd *get* there, that I'd be -- right there, where I'd always wanted to be, with you telling me every story, and touching me, and looking deep into my eyes, and -- and *touching* me --" 

"Oh -- *fuck*, son --" 

"And I think -- it *has* to be the same with you, Daddy. The same -- if you *had* gotten me back five years ago, or ten, or -- whatever. You would've pulled me *in*, and *given* me yourself, and there wouldn't have been *any* part of me which could've *resisted* that, Daddy," Porthos says, and his voice is desperate -- 

His *expression* is desperate -- 

He -- 

"Son..." 

"I -- you have to *know* that I would've *thrown* myself at you, Daddy. You have to --" Porthos growls low, *instinctively* quieting himself. "Of *course* I would've *needed* you, needed every *bit* of you I could *get*, because you would've been *you*, only with -- with everything that *makes* you who you are loud as any fanfare, because you would've needed me to *know* you. Right?" 

"*Yes* --" 

"And I would've been me, Daddy. The man -- the *boy* -- who'd had a hole in his life since the day he'd watched his mother die, feverish and *withered*, on a pile of sweaty blankets on the *floor* --" 

Treville snarls helplessly -- 

"I would've been *me*, Daddy. And you would've made me *remember* -- even though I wouldn't *want* to -- that I'd *really* had a hole in me even before then --" 

Treville *grunts* --

"That *both* me and Mum were -- were *empty* -- " Porthos growls quietly again. "This is the hostler's you use, Daddy?" 

"It -- *yes*, but -- no. We'll talk. We'll talk." 

Porthos nods, and they ride in. 

Treville lets Porthos give the stableboys instructions for his Léon and fights the need to rush the boys, to -- 

They've done nothing wrong, and every last one of them has given him a great deal of happiness -- for all that *none* of them have ridden his cock. 

He can be patient, even if he can't be entirely himself --

And, soon enough, he's walking out with his son. 

"I've some *pointed* questions about your sexual habits, Daddy," Porthos says quietly. 

"Not *any* of *them*, son --" 

"But I'm seeing *legions* of stableboys in your past. Aren't I." 

"That you are. Son --" 

"Her last story, Daddy," Porthos says, and they move to cross the traffic-choked street. "Her -- and she got more feverish, more *drained*, by the *word*. I didn't understand it at the time, but Yejide explained it later --" 

"Guillou's curse made it so she would become weaker *whenever* she spoke of her past --" Treville snarls and *grips* the hilt of his rapier. 

"Right. She told me -- a little -- about her friends, Daddy. About her *pack* -- some of them. All she could before she got *too* weak. About -- about *our* *family* -- and why it was that we were so cold and lonely all the time, even when we had each other, and enough wood for a fire, and enough food. Why we had a *hole* in us that the cold wind could blow through." 

"Fuck -- *son* --" 

"She told me that, if I was lucky, I'd *find* my family -- my *true* family -- when I was older. And, now that you've torn all the walls down? I know that the people she managed to describe to me before the pain and weakness got too bad were your Reynard, your Kitos -- and you. Her mate. My true *father* --" 

And Treville can't do anything at all but stop on the stairs to his house and pull Porthos into his arms, pull him close, bury his face in against his throat -- 

"Daddy, you -- not on the *street* --" 

"Anywhere, son. *Anywhere*." 

"Um. Your um. Your retainer looks like he wants to shoot us both..."

"That would be Alaire, son. The violent look just means we're late for supper. Now *hug me back*." 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and follows orders. "'s just. I would've thrown myself at you, Daddy. I would've. Maybe a little faster if you'd gotten me at *that* point, maybe a little slower if you'd gotten me at *this* point. I still would've -- and slower still wouldn't've been *slow*," Porthos says, pulling back enough to show his raised eyebrows. 

Treville takes a breath and smiles wryly. "And we both know that I have a limited number of responses to that sort of thing... and an *extremely* limited number of responses to that sort of thing from *family*." 

Porthos nods. "So..."

Treville squeezes Porthos *firmly* one more time, then leads him up the stairs and into Alaire's tender mercies.

Alaire evinces not one whit of surprise at being introduced to Treville's son, looks at both of them like they couldn't pass muster without a miracle from on high, treats Treville like the wayward child who happens to pay his salary, and the situation itself like yet more proof that the spheres turn on the whims of the mad and the chronically, depressingly sadistic.

All is well. 

Treville claps the man on the shoulder, thanks him for his blistering competence at absolutely everything he does, asks politely for watered wine to be sent up to his sitting room, and allows, with an air of entirely manufactured noblesse, that supper can wait until later, being as how none of them had warned Cook of Porthos's return. 

"As you say, sir," Alaire says, and there's light positively *dancing* in the muddy depths of the one eye the man can still see out of beyond all the horrific burn scars -- 

There's *pleasure* and *pride*, and Treville will be ten years in the *grave* before he manages to become *sanguine* about the approval of old soldiers. 

Like the one currently taking a moment to *rake* a glance over Porthos exactly like the quartermaster he will always *be* -- 

Porthos comes to *attention* seemingly reflexively -- 

Alaire hums in satisfaction, then turns back to *Treville* with an eyebrow up --

Treville smiles helplessly. "Dismissed -- though." 

"Sir...?" 

"Do take a *rest* at some point tonight, please." 

"I will take that duly under advisement, sir," Alaire says, bowing with the air of a man who thinks everyone in the room with him -- but especially the person he's bowing *to* -- is positively brimming *over* with shite. 

Treville sighs fondly as Alaire makes his departure. 

"So..." And Porthos frowns.

"Yes, son?" Treville cups his arm and prepares to lead him -- hm. "Tour first or *talk* first?"

"Uh... everything?" Porthos laughs ruefully and looks around the foyer. "I always *did* want to see how you lived." 

"Then --" 

"But right now I mostly want to..." He shakes his head. "I need -- more talk. More just... hashing things out." 

"Anything you'd like, son," Treville says, and leads them to the stairs. "To be perfectly honest, I spend the vast majority of my time in this house in three rooms." 

"Oh -- yeah?" 

"Mm. The study, my sitting room, and my bedroom." 

"But... you've got that library right there -- I mean, even if I couldn't see it, I could *smell* it -- and these senses are rapidly getting *terrifying* --" 

"They're just going to get more so, son. Look to your pack for good scents, and *wallow* in them as much as possible." 

"... I'm still going to look at you funny when you wash your hair with my dirty breeches and such." 

Treville *coughs* -- "I've never... or. Hm." 

Porthos snorts. "That's bloody *ominous*, Daddy!" 

"That it is, that it is -- first and foremost: I bring interesting books from the perfectly adequate and comfortable and so on library *to* the study, where I sit in my Dad's battered old throne of a chair to read them by the fire. If I like them?" 

"They stay in the study?" 

"Forevermore, son. If not, they're banished back to the library." 

"I feel like I should be defending the library's *honour* at this point -- oh, this is a nice rug," Porthos says, gesturing to the one laid out over the *carpet* at the top of the stairs. 

"It's *very* soft, and sometimes I shift into the dog and sleep right *there*," Treville says, and points to the right side of the hall, next to -- 

"Oh. Hunh. Is that... I smell... female?" And then Porthos blinks and blushes like *fire*. "Woman! I smell -- I smell *women*. Human *women*. *Fuck*." 

Treville snickers *hard* and opens the door next to the dog's favourite spot, revealing the linen closet. 

"I..." Porthos flares his nostrils over and over -- "What -- these aren't... clean? I mean, they don't smell *bad*. They smell sodding *great* actually. Like... healthy? Women. Happy women, too." 

"Justine," Treville says, and points to every other set of linens. "Beatrice," he says, and points to the others. "Technically, they're my chambermaids, but I do my best to hire people who can and will do everything which needs to be done *when* those things need to be done. They're both wonderful in every way -- and *exactly* as terrifyingly competent as Alaire." 

"Right, but --" 

"They sleep on my sheets for a few days after they've been washed, rolling around and sweating as much as they can --" 

"Uhh..."

"-- and then, because they are *very* nice people who like dogs very much --" 

"They fold 'em up and save 'em for you, got it," Porthos says, shaking his head and grinning. "How did you even *ask* them for that?" 

"I..." 

"*Yes*?" 

Treville grins ruefully and scratches in front of his ear. "It was... a cumulative sort of thing." 

"How's that, then."

Treville gestures them down the hall. "Both of them had heard me extolling the virtues of people who didn't wear perfume. Both of them had heard me extolling the virtues of *sweaty*, *healthy* people who didn't wear perfume --" 

"And maybe both of them had seen you staring at your fresh-from-the-launderer sheets --" 

"*Redolent* with the piss of eight to *twenty* different people every *time* --" 

"You were the saddest dog in the world, weren't you." 

Treville *laughs* ruefully. "It definitely made a difference when the dog in me kept trying to *interrupt* them when they were at their sewing, or reading, or just gossiping away from *me*." 

Porthos laughs hard. "Right. *Got* it. Though I'm surprised they didn't try to, you know..." And Porthos gives him a side-look. 

A *pointed* -- 

Treville raises an eyebrow and opens the door to his bedroom suite -- and then *blinks* -- 

Blushes *violently* -- 

"Right, *that's* bloody adorable --" 

"Son --" 

"Did the thought of them jumping on your cock and having a spin *really* *never* occur to you?" 

"Son, they're half my *age*!" 

A silence -- falls. 

It -- 

The silence seems to fall over the entire house. In truth, the silence seems to fall over the whole of *Paris*. 

"I..." 

"Daddy, I just need to say that you have, just -- the most *amazing* ability to say shit that should *by no means come out of your mouth*." 

Treville licks his lips -- 

Walks *into* his bedroom suite and urges Porthos to join him -- 

Alaire has, of course, managed to get *someone* here first with wine and water -- Treville moves to the table and pours. 

"I am -- just so you know, Daddy -- waiting for you to come up with *something* --" 

"I have nothing, son. Just -- nothing at all." 

"Right, got it --" 

"Though." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and takes the watered wine from Treville. 

Treville downs his with *alacrity* -- 

"I'm listening, Daddy." 

Treville pours himself another. "Never young *girls*, son. Not for me." 

That actually makes Porthos *blink*. 

"I now have any *number* of questions about *your* sexual habits --" 

"Right, I *get* that, but..." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos *looks* at him. *Hard*. 

"Son, is it *really* that strange?" 

Porthos lifts his hands and prepares to tick off points on his fingers. "I'm having a *very* difficult time believing you've never come across a single *brilliant*, *loving*, *open-minded*, *funny* --" 

"All right --" 

"And, *curiously* enough? I've met just a *few* girls over the years who know their way around a blade. Haven't the faintest clue how *that* would work out. Must have been *entirely* coincidental --" 

Treville snorts and pinches the bridge of his nose, lifting the wine in his other hand in something between a toast and an abject surrender. 

"Oh, yeah, Daddy? Giving in so quick?" 

"Absolutely, son," Treville says, pinching a little harder for a moment before looking up again -- 

Pulling out chairs for both of them -- 

And gesturing his beautiful, wonderful, *ruthless* son to sit. 

"Right you are," Porthos says, and does just that. 

Treville sits *right* beside him, clinks their glasses together, and hums. "Your mother was rather fond of this particular hypocrisy in me, you know." 

"I -- what. She. What?" 

Treville laughs -- gently. "Reynard, Marie-Angelique, Laurent -- all of them called me out on this. Nearly *exactly* the way you have -- though Laurent was a bit more relentless about it." 

"I -- Athos's *Dad*?" 

"*Laurent* was one the finest deviants I've *ever* known, son. There were... no stutters within him. No pauses. No *skips*. If two -- or more -- lovers met? If they both -- or all -- felt that they *were* making love? Then it didn't matter who they were, or how old they were, or what they were doing, or what *tools* they were *using* to do those things, or whether or not they were capable of *walking* after they did those things --" 

"Uhh." 

"You get the idea. It was all one, for him. It was all *love*. And the fact that *I* had this stutter -- that I had, for all intents and purposes, denied the very *possibility* of love between myself and *all* young girls -- well." 

"He uh. Went up one side of you and down the other." 

"Oh, yes. Until your mother stepped in." 

Porthos looks a little *glassy*-eyed, but -- "What -- what did she *say*?" 

Treville hums and strokes his beard, flares his nostrils -- 

Remembers and conjures and -- shares: 

_"My *brother*," Amina says, moving across the study to Laurent and reaching up to smack him *firmly* on the back of the head._

_"I -- hm. Amina --"_

_"I *apologize* for this, sweet sister," Amina says to *Marie-Angelique*. "I do not mean to beat your husband so *obviously*, but --"_

_"He *is* being *quite* aggressive tonight," Marie-Angelique says, settling herself more comfortably on the couch. She's only pretending to peruse that book of hours --_

_It's perfectly beautiful; Treville's father had had it commissioned for his mother, who had, in turn, only touched the thing when she wanted to see Treville's father *smile* --_

_And Marie-Angelique knows full well -- as do the rest of them -- that one of the *very* best ways to put Laurent on high alert that he *might* be in trouble is to have Marie-Angelique fondle *Catholic* things._

_Pointedly._

_Laurent is, at this moment, still standing and -- technically -- looming over where Treville is sitting in his Dad's throne. He is, however, *truly* staring at the book of hours in Marie-Angelique's hands -- staring *fixedly* -- while rubbing the back of his head._

_Reynard is grinning slyly at the sweat on Laurent's forehead from his graceful sprawl on the floor at Treville's feet._

_Amina has her fists on her perfect hips -- *not*-coincidentally close to any number of weapons stashed in that wrap-dress, because Laurent truly is behaving *badly* by her measure --_

_And Kitos has one massive paw on the back of Treville's Dad's throne and the other on Treville's shoulder._

_They're waiting._

_They're *all* waiting for *Laurent* -- and it doesn't take long:_

_Laurent takes a *deep* breath. "I -- hm. I find myself, in this moment, entirely certain that I have erred, and yet I am at a loss as to *how*."_

_Amina narrows her eyes *viciously* --_

_Treville coughs --_

_Amina narrows her eyes at *him* --_

_Treville feels his eyes widen like a boy's --_

_Reynard snickers -- briefly. He sobers himself with a hum and tugs lightly on Laurent's trousers. "Vraiment, frère, you were being *much* too hard on notre meneur for his... ah..."_

_"*Fixations*," Kitos says, and raises his bushy eyebrows._

_"And his lack *thereof*," Marie-Angelique says, not looking up from the book._

_Laurent frowns *direfully*, raising a hand in the way which *always* tended to presage a truly magnificent lecture --_

_Amina growls, low and mean._

_"I -- *Amina*, *truly*, you must --"_

_Amina's eyes flare maroon, rounding a little as she starts to shift right there in the middle of the study, despite being *seven months pregnant*._

_"Oh, dear," Laurent says, licking his lips and sweating more obviously. "But, sister, brothers, *wife*, you must see the fundamental *illogic* in Treville's sexuality --"_

_Amina's teeth are longer, and foam is dripping from her lengthening muzzle --_

_Reynard is inching out of her path *to* Laurent --_

_Kitos is *smacking* Treville in an obvious attempt to get him to put a *lead* on Amina --_

_Treville is smacking Kitos *back* while crooning soft, conciliatory dog-songs in Amina's general direction --_

_And Marie-Angelique has just turned a page in the book of hours, which is resting on her *eight*-months-pregnant-belly, and is making a softly *interested* noise._

_"Oh, all *right*," Laurent says, taking another breath. "I -- surrender."_

_They all pause._

_Amina cocks her head to the side._

_Foam drips._

_Laurent licks his lips. "I... would like to know why *you* are so... vehement that this... quirk of Treville's should stand," he says, and bows to Amina, low and formal. "Please, my sister. I... it wounds. To imagine my little brother without love."_

_And they *all* look sharp for that -- Marie-Angelique goes so far as to *snap* the book of hours shut and set it on the end table several feet away from her *body* --_

_Laurent smiles at her *gratefully* --_

_And Amina shifts all the way back to human-form, wipes the foam from her mouth and cheeks, and nods, reaching up to cup Laurent's face. "My brother. *Loving* brother."_

_"I -- it is only. You are *younger* than Treville, Amina. What if you had met before you came of age? What if --"_

_"Shh." And Amina presses two fingers to Laurent's mouth._

_Laurent frowns down at her with worry, with -- so much hurt._

_"I think we forget, too much, that you are a man who sees *every* possibility at *all* times, my brother," Amina says, and smiles wryly. "This: I never would have let my sweet brother, my *mate*, *escape* me. If he had tried to run from me because I was 'too young' for him? I would have hunted him down and *worn* him down. One piece at a *time* if necessary. And you know this, yes?"_

_Laurent inhales -- and nods, closing his eyes._

_"So, we have *this*. But there is still the rest, mm? Still the question of all the love and lovers our Treville *might* be denying himself solely because he *listens* to the strong-but-quiet voice inside him which makes him *recoil* when he thinks of breast buds and *desperately* tight and *hairless* *cunts*."_

_"*Shit* -- I -- you --"_

_"Like so, mm?" And Amina nods to Treville, who is being slapped and shaken good-naturedly by Kitos and Reynard._

_Laurent kisses Amina's fingertips --_

_Amina drags them down and off his mouth with *obvious* affection --_

_"Thank you for that. And... I do understand. I am not always *hopeless*. There must -- there must be *room*, within the realm of sex and sexuality, for that which simply does not *work*," Laurent says, and then scowls so blackly that..._

_"Husband."_

_"I am listening, wife."_

_"I am about to pick up that book of hours again."_

_Laurent stops scowling, neatens his clothes entirely unnecessarily, and turns to incline his head to Marie-Angelique._

_Marie-Angelique, in her turn, nods to Laurent and then turns to Amina with one little blonde eyebrow up._

_Amina hums and nods to *her* -- and then turns back to Laurent and starts petting him slowly and firmly with her strong, well-worked hands._

_"Oh."_

_"Mm?"_

_"That's always so perfectly wonderful," Laurent says, and very obviously loses several tonnes worth of tension as Amina pets him --_

_And pets him --_

_And *pets* him --_

_Laurent sighs, and nods. "There are things which, objectively, do not work. For some."_

_"Yes, my brother," Amina says, and keeps petting._

_"There are people for whom some things *would* work, but, because of the many quirks and turns of their unique personalities and *selves*, still do *not* work."_

_"*Yes*, my brother."_

_Laurent licks his lips and *starts* to frown --_

_Amina pauses her petting --_

_Laurent stops frowning._

_Amina starts petting again._

_"Thank you -- thank you," Laurent says._

_"You are welcome, my brother."_

_"I -- Treville."_

_"I'm listening, Laurent," Treville says, and there's a low and *rueful* laugh under his voice._

_"I believe -- that I became fixated on this in part because I have sensed within you -- as I have sensed within *all* of us, in different ways, at different times -- a burgeoning of possibility which does not end," Laurent says, and never looks away from Amina's eyes. "Which need *never* end."_

_Treville makes a soft sound. "Some... some possibilities *are* better left, brother --"_

_"I --"_

_"Lest they *injure* the possibilities -- the *truths* -- we've made with our *loves*," Treville says, and croons again, soft and urging --_

_Laurent blinks --_

_*Searches* Amina --_

_And Amina smiles with *soft* wryness as she strokes Laurent's cheekbones with her thumbs. "Perhaps. *Perhaps*... I would rather have my sweet brother all for my *own* -- and for this *pack* -- than for some pretty little girl with soft skin, and a soft voice, and soft *eyes*," she says, and raises her eyebrows._

_Laurent blinks *more* -- and flushes with obvious understanding._

_Kitos laughs hard, shaking the rafters and thrumming right through Treville's achingly *relieved* chest. "Mum. What the bloody buggering fuck would Fearless do with one of *those*?" And his gift for a cue was always perfect --_

_"Run *screaming*, brother! Like the good dog he is," Amina says grinning broad and bright and stroking down to Laurent's hands before tugging him back to the chairs. "Now *come*, Laurent -- I *know* your mind is full of filthy thoughts we can all *enjoy*."_

_"Oh. Well... yes, I hope so..."_

Treville pulls them both out of the memory slowly, gently -- 

And watches his son beam at the fading images and sensations with fascinated joy, thrilled *wonder*. 

It's a joy and an *ache* -- he should be able to give his son his *pack*! 

"You -- fuck, Daddy, you can give them to me *this* way, eh? I --" Porthos gives himself a shake and grins broadly. "You can *always* give them to me this way. I... that... that was *amazing*." 

Treville smiles helplessly. "Every moment with them. Every *moment*." 

"And that -- Athos's Mum was pregnant with *him* in that memory, yeah?" 

"Oh, yes. A little more than a month away from giving birth, and -- mm. Could you smell her, son? Could you smell your *mother*." 

"I smelled *everyone*, and -- I..." Porthos snorts hard. "All right, no, I was *absolutely* focused on the giant pregnant women. Fuck, they smelled *incredible*! So -- so *healthy*, and..." He licks his lips and flares his nostrils over and over again -- 

His tongue is peeking -- 

He's narrowing his eyes just a little *hungrily*... 

Treville laughs softly. 

"Mm? I... oh. Uh. I'm being *extremely* obvious over here, aren't I." 

"That you are, son. *My* son," Treville says, grinning and filling his boy's glass. 

"*Right*. Because there is no way on *any* sphere that you didn't plot and scheme ways you might've managed to keep Mum pregnant at *all* times." 

"That's *right*." 

"But... uh." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos gestures with his glass. "You and -- Athos's parents," he says, raising his eyebrows and lowering his chin. 

Treville snorts. "You already *know* --" 

"No, I mean -- did you... uh." Porthos frowns and blushes and blushes *more* -- 

"Son...?" 

"Are you going to bloody make me *say* it?" 

"Probably?" 

"*Daddy* --" 

"I mean, this is *wildly* entertaining, son --" 

"*Are you Thomas's father*." 

Treville splutters -- 

"I mean --" 

"*No*, I'm not -- *son* --" 

"How is this a shocking question for *you*? Thomas doesn't look all that much like Athos *or* Laurent! And you were apparently sticking your cock in all sorts of de la Fère holes!" 

Treville stares.

Porthos glares. Belligerently. 

Treville takes a *breath* -- and thinks -- 

"Do that, yeah." 

"I -- ah." 

Porthos drinks. 

At a measured pace. 

While glaring -- 

Treville coughs. "Right you are, son. It's a shocking question because I'm still catching up to myself, and to the fact that you do and *don't* know the deepest secrets of my heart, and all the things which make me who I am." And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

"Oh. What don't I know about *this*, eh?" 

Treville takes another, much less measured drink. "Mm. Once we were all bound? Once you were mine and *no* one else's? I could feel you *growing* in my Amina-love's womb. And I knew that that would always be true with *any* child I fathered, in any *way* I fathered them."

"Uhh. Thinking hard, now, about the fact that Mum used words like '*true* father' and that *you* -- fuck. I'm not your son by blood." 

And that -- 

Treville can *see* the blood draining from Porthos's face -- 

From his *son's* face, and that -- 

Treville *grips* Porthos by the back of the neck. 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I'm going to give you... a large amount of information in a small amount of time, son. Listen." 

"Y-yeah -- yes, Daddy --" 

"This touch -- my *grip* on the back of your *neck* -- is *always* going to affect you. It's always going to *drop* you, right down onto your knees. It's always going to make you ready to take my *orders*." 

"*Fuck* -- Daddy --" 

"Shh. Listen." 

"Yes, Daddy, I -- I --" 

"I won't do this to you indiscriminately, son. I *wouldn't* do this to you if it wasn't of the utmost importance. But: I am your father. I will *always* be your father. Your mother was *entangled* with the eldest son of the Marquis de Belgard, and it was difficult -- even with Laurent's help as the comte de la Fère -- to get her *free*. Belgard didn't want to let her go -- even when faced with the fact that there would be a child that he'd have to find some way to explain to people *he* cared about *impressing*." 

"Oh --" 

"Shh. We didn't kill him. We should have, of course. It was his revenge for all of our countless little -- and large -- humiliations that ultimately led your mother to Guillou." 

"Nn --" 

"Shh. We were -- the men of the pack -- out of the country on an action in Spain when it happened. When Belgard set that earth-magic-immune assassin on you and your mother, after having lured your mother close by pretending to want to *see* his son just *once* --" 

Porthos makes a *sick* sound -- 

"Shh, son. Shh..." 

"Yes -- yes, Daddy --" 

"You were little more than a month old. Athos -- Olivier -- was barely two months old. With us being *gone* all the time? We hadn't so much as gotten the pointless, weak, meaningless, and *official* baptisms done, much less any ceremony which would actually *mean* something to us. But -- but that's not the important thing. 

"Those aren't any of the important things, like how your mother fought the assassin off with you in her *arms*, or how I *ended* every last person who had a hand in her death -- and your *loss* -- or... this."

"What --" 

"This, son. This is truly the one thing, the *only* thing, you *must* remember," Treville says, and shares.

_"Sweet brother..." And Amina's voice is low and hurt, low and *trembling* with hurt, with unshed *tears*, and Treville can't ever let that --_

_He hauls his Amina-love into his arms, urging her to hug him back, to hold him with her perfect strong *arms* --_

_She's so soft --_

_She's so *limp* --_

_"*Amina* --"_

_"My sweet brother... I don't..." And her head is on Treville's shoulder mostly because he'd *put* it there, but --_

_But now his shoulder is wet. "Oh, Amina-love, you -- you have to *tell* me. You have to let me *fix* it," and now he's moving her in his arms, sniffing and snuffling, licking and lapping and *nipping*, because the dog in him is making demands --_

_Their mate *needs*!_

_And so do *they*._

_She croons --_

_He croons *back*, nods, pushes her back and back toward the tiny bedroom in this tiny flat -- her den, with all her good *scents* --_

_*Their* scents, mingled and old and new and *right* --_

_She stops him in the doorway, shadows and gloom hiding everything but the brightness of the tears on her cheeks._

_He croons a little more --_

_Licks them away softly, *questioningly* --_

_"Sweet. Sweet brother," she says, and her voice is stronger now, if not steadier. More --_

_She needs the man in him, and that -- "I'm listening, Amina-love. I'm *right* here," he says, cupping her shoulders --_

_Stroking down to her hands and twining them together --_

_"I'll always be right here --"_

_"I do not."_

_"Mm? Tell me," he says, and licks her temple, just enough for his tongue to catch a little at her crinkly-soft hairline. "Please tell me."_

_She shudders once, all over, and then seems to gather herself before looking up that little distance into his eyes. "My sweet brother. The babe in my belly should be *yours* --"_

_Treville *snarls* -- "The babe is *ours*! *No* one else's!"_

_But Amina stiffens. She doesn't snarl with him. She doesn't even show her *teeth*. She... she doesn't *flinch*, but --_

_But Treville knows with every *part* of him that *he* is wrong. "Amina..."_

_She lowers her head._

_Treville *fights* back a shudder by main *force* -- and releases one of Amina's hands so he can gently tilt her face back up. "Stay with me."_

_She shivers. "Sweet brother..."_

_"*Stay* with *me*, Amina-love."_

_She blinks and *grunts* -- "I -- I would never *leave* you, sweet brother. I *could* never leave you --"_

_"And I could never leave *you*. You're my mate."_

_"And I am yours!"_

_"Always mine. Always *yours*."_

_"*Yes*, I -- but --"_

_"Every part of you, Amina-love," Treville says, letting his voice be low and just a little dark. "Every... every hidden *part*. Right?"_

_She moans. "Yes. *Yes*, my brother, my *husband* --"_

_"And you *own* every part of me. Don't you."_

_"*Yes* --"_

_"That was true... mm. Before we ever met. Before we ever so much as *smelled* each other."_

_"We were *meant*!"_

_Treville leans in and sucks a kiss to Amina's soft, hungry mouth --_

_Another --_

_*Another* --_

_"*Please* --"_

_"Amina-love. What happened when we *did* touch, mm?"_

_"I -- I had already -- there had been another *man* --"_

_"But we did something *about* that. Didn't we."_

_Amina makes a low, soft *hungry* sound. "My -- my. Guardians..."_

_"That's right. They didn't *have* to bind me to *you* -- we were already bound tighter than any two people *could* ever be --"_

_"Oh."_

_He kisses her temples, licks them -- and moves one hand to her perfect, round belly. Holds it there. *Right* there._

_She pants. "He. Our babe will always be --"_

_"Ours. *Ours*, Amina-love."_

_Amina moans like a *starving* woman, clutching Treville's hand to her belly._

_Treville's idiot cock jerks *hard* -- but. "Amina-love... all of that? All of the binding?"_

_"Y-yes?"_

_"It's meaningless next to *you*."_

_"No --"_

_"It's meaningless next to *us* -- and the love we make *between* us. You could never have a child I wouldn't want for my own --"_

_"Jean-*Armand*!"_

_"-- and there's not a single goddamned thing any power in the spheres can do about that."_

_"*Fuck*, I --" She yanks him in --_

_She yanks him *close*, biting him all over his face as their scents rise and twine and *braid* together._

_She *grips* him by the cock --_

_But she keeps their other hands *firmly* on her belly._

Treville pulls them out of the memory slowly and watches Porthos *gulp* breaths as he tries to blink himself back to awareness. 

It... 

"Easy, son. Nice and slow." 

"I -- I --" 

"Shh. Slow and easy. It's important to show care at times like these." 

Porthos blinks even more rapidly for a moment -- but he nods, and then starts pulling his ragged breathing under control just the way he should. 

"Good boy, just like that."

He nods and keeps it up. 

Treville rumbles quietly to help ease him through it, and very, very slowly gentles his grip on Porthos's neck. 

"Oh --" 

"Shh, keep breathing, son." 

"Right -- right," Porthos says, and does just that -- but now he's meeting Treville's eyes with questions in his own, and hunger that needs its own answer. 

Treville nods and moves his hand entirely. 

Porthos shivers like a *horse* -- but manages to keep his breathing steady. "I -- I'm good, Daddy." 

"Yes, you are." 

"I just -- I guess I should've picked something up by the fact that you *had* spent the past twenty odd years going mad for -- me."

Treville smiles a little crookedly. "Never forget that *both* of us -- but *especially* you -- have gone through just a *few* changes today." 

"I --" 

"In less than five *hours*, son." 

Porthos blinks -- 

Looks out the window at the fading -- but not fading all that *much* -- afternoon light -- 

Blinks *more* and licks his lips. "Right, well, I can see why you wanted to start with only two nights of drinking per week. I'm going to need to work myself up to the sort of *lifestyle* changes you apparently got up to as a young man," he says, and nods judiciously. And drinks. 

Treville hums and smiles *precisely* as fondly as he wants to. "I love you." 

"Um."

"I'll let you work your way up to that, too," Treville says, winking and then smiling precisely as *obnoxiously* as he wants to.

"Right, when you did that to *Mum*." 

"Mm?" 

"Did she punch you, grab you by the *cock*, or grab you by the cock *while* punching you?" 

Treville sighs happily -- 

"And you're an *arse* --" 

"It does my heart no end of good to see how well you got to *know* your mother in the time you had her, son --" 

"I'm about to bludgeon you with -- are you going to tell me *why* there are approximately fifty thousand weapons in this room?"

"Eventually, but --" 

"*Arse* --" 

"But son, what you need to understand about your mother?"

"I'm listening," Porthos says, and his smile is... open. Wry and sweet and open and loving and -- 

"Oh, son..." 

"Don't -- don't get caught up on *me* --" 

"Hmm. We'll discuss the possibilities -- and impossibilities -- in *that* later, but, yes, your mother. She was, as you know very well, a *hard* woman." 

"Right, yeah --" 

"She didn't always *want* to be hard, son." 

"I -- what?" 

"Or..." Treville wags his head a little. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she tended to appreciate it -- vehemently in any number of *ways* -- when she was given chances -- *freedom* -- to be something *other* than a hard woman," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks. "Oh -- I. I've known women like that. *People* like that." 

"I'm sure you have, son. And that memory I showed you before, where she was about to shift *at* Laurent?" 

"Yeah? Oh -- you're saying she didn't *want* to be hard right then?" And Porthos frowns a little. 

Treville hums. "I know. You're *used* to your mother laying down the law right, left, and center, yes?" 

"*Yes*, Daddy. She... she made all the crooked lines of the Court *straight*. And *then* she relaxed. For a little while, anyway." 

"Mm. I can see it. I can see it, and I want... well. You know perfectly well what I want." 

Porthos shares a wry smile with him. 

Treville nods. "Picture your mother in a world with... a lot more straight lines than were in the Court. A world with far fewer problems which needed her, specifically, to fix them." He raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos nods slowly. "She. She could relax *all* the time -- or. *Some* of the time. Or. She *wanted* to relax?" 

"More the latter two. She told me once that she could... see a *path* to the places where she could breathe and rest and *be*, but she most often needed a hand to *get* to those places." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Like yours." 

"As often as I could, son. And the rest of us were focused on that goal soon enough, as well. Which is why, in that memory, *Marie-Angelique* was just as focused on disciplining Laurent as Amina was, even though Marie-Angelique *agreed* with Laurent." 

"Oh, that's right -- you *said* -- hunh," Porthos says, sitting back a little and nodding. "She was hacked-off at Laurent for getting in the way of Mum taking a bloody *breath*, so the goal of getting you up the skirts of as many soft, sweet, bouncy little girls as possible got taken *right* off the fire, eh?" 

Treville laughs painfully. "Could we... not..." 

Porthos snickers and -- lolls his tongue. 

And then looks shocked beyond *words* to have done it -- 

And *then* looks utterly lost about how he might go about *undoing* it, which... 

Well, there's probably something badly wrong with laughing at one's only beloved child this hard, but -- 

Porthos salutes him. 

Vigorously. 

With his tongue practically touching his *chest* -- 

Treville doesn't wheeze. *Much*. No, no -- "Oh, son, just -- ah. You just have to concentrate a bit." 

Porthos stares at him. 

"Focus on everything in you that makes you a *man*, son -- as opposed to a deeply obnoxious *animal*." 

Porthos stares at him. 

"Hm. I. Well, when I'm having an especially difficult time of this? I start imagining myself being forced to address Louis and present myself to the peerage and other horrible shite. While wearing *truly* godawful clothing. Pinch-y shoes, especially -- oh, there you are." 

"*Fuck* -- I think my cock is softer, too." 

"That's a *damned* shame, son."


	7. Sometimes there's nothing more frightening than reaching for the brightness in our worlds.

"Yeah, well, I'm blaming you for all of it, so here we are --" 

"And here *we* are, Porthos," Justine says, bumping the door open with one delightful hip and wriggling and sashaying and *grinning* her way into the room with a -- bouncy -- Beatrice on her heels. 

"Oh --" 

"Welcome *home*," Beatrice says, in her *huskiest* voice -- Treville has fond memories of her and Thomas practicing that voice together --

"I -- thank --" 

And Justine and Beatrice set the trays down with an absolutely *unconscionable* amount of jiggling -- though no breasts *actually* come entirely free of their bindings -- 

As opposed to winding up dragged and pressed and *crushed* against various parts of Porthos's *body* -- 

Porthos looks *stunned* -- 

Treville sighs happily, drinks, and watches the show. 

"*Well*, sir? Do you *need* anything else...?" This from Beatrice, who, bless her, is twirling one of her bodice-laces. 

So. 

Treville makes a show -- a positive *production* -- of thinking about it. 

He pooches up his expression. 

He leans his chair back on two legs. 

He strokes his *beard* -- 

Beatrice and Justine *hum* for it -- and hip-check Porthos's shoulders gently, once and twice. 

"Uhh... Daddy --" 

"Well, I just don't *know*, lasses," Treville says, and *hauls* on as innocent an expression as he can manage. He suspects that it's more clueless than anything else, but -- "What do *you* say, son?" 

"*I* --" 

"Do you... need anything?" 

Porthos's expression is as wounded as a hungry puppy's. 

Treville grins and winks. "Take a deep breath, son." 

"Uhh. *Daddy*." 

"Trust me, mm?" 

Porthos frowns -- but does as he's told, breathing deep... and then blinking in *confused* relief. 

Relieved confusion? It bears thought. In any event... 

"I uh..." He looks up at Beatrice, and then at Justine. "I've *just* figured out that you ladies are only... playing..."

Beatrice winks -- 

Justine tugs on one of Porthos's curls -- 

"All part of the *service*," Beatrice says, and bats her lashes -- 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"Oh, that was *good*, Bea," Justine says -- 

"You don't think I should wiggle my hips a little, too?" 

"Maybe if we're sweatier?"

Beatrice nods judiciously -- 

Justine looks to be planning new *attacks* -- 

*Porthos* looks to be reevaluating a *lifetime* of relating to women -- 

And Treville hums. The last time his home was this fundamentally correct... well.

Justine and Beatrice look to him with sharp, calculating smiles -- 

Treville nods his dismissal -- 

And they lean in as one, *breasting* at Porthos -- 

"Oh fuck." 

\-- before running off giggling, flashing their ankles every step of the way. 

"Right, well. Uh. Are you planning to explain *that*? At *all*?" 

"Absolutely, son. But eat --" 

"Fine," Porthos says, and picks up his utensils. "*Talk* and eat." 

"Son. Are you asking me to be *rude*?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville lolls his tongue. 

"You know what, Daddy? I'm going to tie you to something *extremely* uncomfortable, *gag* you, get Athos *paralytically* drunk, and then make him lecture you on protocol for six hours." 

"I." 

"I'll spritz him with some of Thomas's perfume first, too." 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Also?"

"I -- yes?" 

"*While* all this is happening, I'll be back here with Justine and Beatrice, telling them long and bloody *heartbreaking* tales about how secretly, for all these years, you've missed the *quiet* and *peace* and *calm* --" 

"Bloody *hell*, son, I'll *behave* --" 

"No, you sodding won't!" And Porthos glares at him. 

Treville licks his lips. 

Porthos narrows his eyes. 

Treville *bites* his lip -- 

"You're about to start laughing like an *arsehole* again. Aren't you." 

"I..." 

"*I* know how to track your chambermaids by scent now, Daddy." 

"Fuck, eat, *eat*," Treville says, and laughs hard, gesturing for peace. "Also? They'd never believe you about all the quiet and --" He shudders. 

Porthos glares for another moment and then snorts, shaking his head and digging into his stew. After he swallows: "Why's that, then?" 

"Same reason for all the weapons surrounding us, son: My father -- your *grandfather* -- casts a *very* long shadow." 

"My --" Porthos stops right there, and blinks, and licks his *lips* -- 

*Blushes* -- 

"I've um. Never had grandparents..." 

Treville winces. "Was your mother not able to tell..." Treville shakes it off. "Son, you're *named* after your mother's father." 

"*Oh*. *Really*?" 

"*Yes*, son. One of the *countless* ways you were hidden from me is that the *significance* of your name went over my head every time I *heard* it -- but." Treville gives himself a shake. "Your mother was never able to tell me much about her people -- she didn't *remember* much about them -- but I know that your maternal grandfather's name was Porthos, and that he was a *massive* man --"

"I -- no, go on, please!" And Porthos is -- beaming. Beautiful. 

Treville grins -- and points to Porthos's *plate*. 

Porthos *blinks* -- and sets to. 

"Good boy. So. He's tall. He's *big* -- and fit. He's not the leader of their village, but he's married to the head witch. She..." Treville shakes his head. "Amina remembered very little, ultimately, about her mother. She was due to be taken into *formal* apprenticeship to her not long after the slavers came, but what she knew of her when she was small was that she was tall, and strong, and *remote*." 

"Powerful?" 

"From what she could see, son. She told me, once, that her most vivid memories of her mother were of her scowling face as one or another of the -- older -- village children ran to tell her that this villager, or this one, or that one, had done something idiotic and needed her help. And then? The memories were of her *back*." 

Porthos nods slowly, obviously trying to conjure in his mind, trying to *build*. It doesn't take long for him to start frowning. "What..." 

"Mm?"

"I can't actually... picture Mum as a *child*." 

Treville laughs softly. "It'll get a *little* easier once you meet Ife, son. She was one of your mother's three guardians -- the youngest of the three, and the last one living." 

"Oh -- she. She knew Mum when she was a girl..." 

"That's right. Practically from the *day* she was freed." 

"*Fuck* -- I. Where? Does Ife live?" 

"On my lands outside of Paris, with the various family members whom she tolerates best," Treville says, and grins. "She'll be thrilled to see you again, son." 

"Again -- oh," Porthos says, and swallows.

"Mm." Treville gestures with his fork -- 

"Right -- right." 

They eat the good, hearty food precisely like the soldiers they are, fast and gratefully and copiously. At the end, they mop up the last of the stew with the soft, tender bread Treville is spoiled enough, at this point, to miss *horribly* when he's on campaign. 

He makes sure Porthos gets most of it, and settles back with his wine while he watches Porthos finish up. 

And... there's no reason not to talk while he does it, now is there? "Your grandfather -- your namesake -- I know a little more about." 

"Mm?" Porthos swallows. "Yeah?" 

Treville inclines his head. "Your mother had many vivid memories of your grandfather training other men and boys with weapons, and at hand-to-hand fighting --" 

"Oh -- fuck!" And Porthos grins *broadly*. 

Treville inclines his head. "I was always of the opinion that your mother had to have gotten it *somewhere*. I..." Treville hums at a memory. "*One* of the countless reasons why I wanted her to be my wife? Why I wanted her to raise my children?"

"Yes, Daddy?" 

Treville takes another drink. "I didn't teach your mother horsemanship. I *couldn't* teach her the sword." 

"Right, no, 'course --" 

Treville holds up a hand. "*Not* 'of course'. The only thing that stopped me there was her insistence on tight wrap-dresses that limited her extension." 

"Uhh..." 

"But I didn't *have* to teach her the knife, son. And I damned well didn't have to teach her hand-to-hand. And? She was *incredible* with a pistol once I -- *we* -- put one in her hands," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"I... oh. You. You were dreaming of her *training* -- me. And whatever *other* children you had." 

"That's right, son. I, your Uncles, your godfather Laurent --" 

"*Oh* --" 

Treville -- inhales. And nods. "Laurent and Marie-Angelique were your godparents. The fact that there was never a ceremony --" Treville growls. "They were *yours*, son. Just as Amina was Olivier's and Thomas's godmother." 

"I. I had always wondered why they didn't -- have one." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You, Olivier -- *Athos*, and Thomas -- you were always meant to be brothers. *Always*." 

Porthos shivers and nods. "Yes, Daddy. I -- I need to think about that... a lot more," he says, and laughs softly. "But you were saying? What *about* your pack?" 

Treville sips his wine. "Mm. *The* men of the pack, son. The various wars, not-quite-wars, *actions*..." He shakes his head. "We weren't *there*, son. A month with the boys here, a winter of shaky peace *there*... it wasn't enough. It could never have been enough. This isn't the *only* reason why I say Marie-Angelique deserves far more credit for the men Athos and Thomas have become than *any* of the rest of us do, but... do you see?" 

Porthos nods. "You *knew* you wouldn't be there, and -- it must've seemed perfect, eh? A wife who could take *over* turning your children into killing machines whenever you had to fuck off to fight for King and country." 

"That's *right*, son, and -- well, when you said your mother started you on knife-work when you were *four*..." 

"Mm?" 

"All right, that gave me a *little* bit of a pause..." 

Porthos looks at him. 

Treville grins ruefully. "I know she had to, son. I know. When we talked about it, though --" 

"Wait, you actually had *lesson* plans with her?" 

"Nothing too *formal*, son -- you can't do *that* sort of thing until you have a *good* idea of your students' strengths and weaknesses --" 

"Right, but --" 

"*You* were still missing half the times you grabbed for my finger --" 

"You were absolutely plotting ways to help me fix that." 

"I..." 

"In the bloody *crib*." 

Treville hums and rubs at his moustache. 

"*Arse*. But tell me what you talked about with Mum, eh?" And Porthos leans in, eyes wide and eager. 

"*Most* of that conversation was my attempts to subtly ease her into the idea of dressing in a way which would allow me -- and the rest of us -- to teach her the sword, if only so she would be able to teach you and *Olivier* when the time came --" 

"Oh my -- she would've taught *Athos*, *too*..." 

"Mm. Just think, son. *You* might not have needed to be the one to work those knife-fighting weaknesses out of him." 

Porthos's expression is *wondering*. 

"In *any* event, I wasn't making any inroads, at all... until I pointed out, in no uncertain terms, that even if France got to be a lot more *peaceful*, *I* would still get busier, because I was going to get promoted higher and higher -- short of various *improbable* events. 

"We were both queasy for that thought."

"And -- she agreed to learn the sword?" 

Treville shakes his head, flaring his nostrils for the memories of her *chagrined* scents. "Not that night. I think she would've, though -- if we'd had more time." 

"Yeah, Daddy?" 

Treville nods. "We *did* wind up sketching out plans of how to teach you that day, curled together in the woods on my properties outside of Paris. We had you on a soft little pile of torn grass and wildflowers, we were marveling at how impossibly *fast* you were growing -- Amina was producing absolute *fountains* of milk on a daily basis --" 

"Um." 

"And you were drinking every last *drop* of it."

"Oh -- *oh*."

"Your burps -- and there were seemingly *thousands* of those every day --" 

"Uhh..." 

"You'd rattle the *windows*, son. It was incredibly impressive." 

Porthos snorts hard. "All *right*, but.. uh. Was she... was she tired, maybe? Or... I know you were both *witches*, and *strong* and all, but..." 

Treville wags his head. "We thought, perhaps, it *might* have been slowing down the healing process a little, but..." He shakes his head. "In the end? If *anything* was *truly* slowing down the healing process, it was the fact that, at the time, we hadn't gone to the All-Mother. We didn't *know* to go to the All-Mother, because Amina's guardians were convinced that all the blood-magery we'd done to bind Amina and me to *you* would hack the goddess *off*. That... that was a lot of mistakes at once, and it caused a lot of *problems* at once. 

"Amina might have been even stronger than she was -- *I* certainly would've been -- and *you* might've been... indescribable."

"Fuck..." 

"But -- we didn't know. All we cared about, all we could *see*, was you. Our beautiful boy. Our already *magnificent* boy, who was -- it must be said -- getting more than a few queer looks from the staff, who knew perfectly well how fast babies *ought* to grow." 

"Uhh... shit?" 

Treville laughs wryly. "Ife's cousins Ewatomi and Ododo, who had unceremoniously shoved their way into my manor and taken *over* running my kitchens after Amina and I were bound to you -- and after it was decided among Ife's family, apparently unanimously, that I wasn't fit to care for my own boots, much less for a wife and *child* -- well. They explained to everyone that it was the special combination of herbs which was in the tea Amina drank every morning and night, and if they drank it, too, their babies would be just as massive." 

"How *long* did it take for your retainers to tell them to peddle their shite elsewhere?" 

Treville laughs harder. "About six seconds, son. In the end, they *all* knew we were witches. We'd healed them from countless agues and injuries over the months and years -- even *before* we were augmented -- and we'd done a few other things, too." 

"Right. So... they all accepted it? And -- wait. Why didn't I grow faster in, you know, the *womb*?" 

"That they did, son. And were chock full of suggestions about when to stop even *trying* to feed you just milk, and start you on heavier things." Treville flares his nostrils and looks back at his memories. "There'd be little bowls of cereal mysteriously appearing in your room at breakfast-time..." 

Porthos snorts. "*Got* it. But...?" 

Treville shrugs. "I haven't actually asked the All-Mother that question, son." 

"Aww --" 

"*You* are welcome to, when you commune with Her -- as soon as possible --" 

"Shit --" 

Treville laughs like an arsehole. "Oh, son, it *will* be fine. I promise." 

"I --" 

"And? My *theory* on the matter is that it will all turn out to boil down to the same sorts of reasons why the All-Mother can't make females -- most of the females who breed this way on this sphere -- pregnant more often than they would naturally be able to achieve, even though She can make the vast majority of *males* capable of producing *voluminous* amounts of seed. 

"I *did* ask about that, and, well... there are limits to what bodies can do -- especially human-ish ones." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "I can see it. There wasn't much that could be done with me while I was *inside*, but once I was out..." 

"Right you are, son," Treville says, and mimes holding the truly *massive* baby that Porthos had been. 

Porthos snickers. "*Fine*. But -- *that* day, with you and Mum and me in the woods, on the grass and such?" 

"Oh, yes, and you were doing your best to *smash* butterflies between your chubby little hands..." 

Porthos snorts *hard* -- 

Treville grins. "You may have just been trying to catch them. Difficult to say, considering the somewhat *random* flailing --" 

"You realize I'm going to be *ridiculously* self-conscious *every* time someone tries to toss me something or *hand* me something from now on." 

"Nonsense, son. I'll only be watching you eighty, ninety percent of the time --" 

"Fuck --" 

"There's no need to worry --" 

"I understand so much more about why Athos is so bloody *tense* all the bloody time --" 

"He was born tense, son." 

"I don't *believe* you." 

"Son --"

"You were all bloody *staring* at the poor bastard from the time he was bloody *crowning* --" 

"Well."

"Well, *what*?" 

Treville grins. "We'd had reason to appreciate that view for some time, son." 

Porthos smacks him.

Treville snickers hard. "Oh, son --" 

"Fuck -- oh, fuck, now I'm thinking about *Mum* --" Porthos smacks him *harder* --

Treville *chokes* --

"Wait." 

"Mm?" Treville sits up and drinks -- 

Hums -- 

Drinks *more* -- "Yes?"

"You *arsehole*." 

"That's me --" 

"You were all... with Mum." 

Treville raises his eyebrows *high* -- but.

*But* -- 

"Perhaps... that took a little while to... sink in fully?" 

"Uhh..."

Treville rests a hand on Porthos's shoulder -- 

"Fuck, you're about to bloody *scruff* me again --" 

"Only if you *want* me to, son." 

"I -- yeah?" 

Treville nods -- and squeezes Porthos's shoulder firmly. 

"Right -- right. Then don't?" 

"Right you are, son." 

"I uh. I mean. 's not like I *don't*..." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos takes a *deep* breath -- and laughs it out, rueful and soft. "I -- right. Here it is: If you'd ever *asked* me, Daddy, how many relationships -- real, honest, deep, *true* romantic relationships -- I've had?" 

"Yes, son?" 

"I'd say one. *Just* one. And that's the absolute truth." 

Treville raises an eyebrow *slowly*. 

"Heh. Yeah. *After* I told that truth? I'd hope you'd give me a look *just* like that, so I could give you the *rest* of the truth, which is that that *one* romantic relationship was with eight people, six of whom are dead now." 

"Fuck, son..." 

"The other two aren't speaking to me, because of a *series* of rows we had which all boiled to one row: They felt I was being a fool, an arsehole, a braggart, and about eighteen other fuck-awful things for working so hard to get out of the Court so I could be a Musketeer --" 

Treville -- growls -- 

"Wait, Daddy. Please." 

Treville shuts his *teeth*. "I -- go on, son. Please go on." 

Porthos nods, reaching up to squeeze the hand Treville has on his shoulder. "I told them they were cowards. I told them they were lazy. I told them they just wanted to waste their -- their *lives* taking the *easy* way out. I told them they really were no better than gutter rats if they never *tried* to be better -- worse. So much --" He shakes his head. 

"Son..." 

"I remember -- you know what I remember about that day, Daddy? You know, *other* than being a complete *shithead*." 

Treville squeezes Porthos's shoulder *hard*. "Tell me, son. Get it out." 

"Yeah, I -- there was... we were in our flat. It wasn't much of anything, but it was pretty nice for the Court. Spacious for three people without being horribly draughty, a fireplace, a *real* bed -- fuck, when we moved in we thought we'd scored a bloody *palace*," Porthos says, obviously looking into the past. 

His eyes are damp. 

"I... I remember that I was pacing. Flea, Charon -- they were giving me the united front, eh? Before that day, they'd had their arguments with me *separately*. But. But I guess they thought that desperate times called for desperate measures.

"They were standing still, shoulder to shoulder, close to the bed. And I could see... how easy it would be. 

"How I would just have to say the right words in this way, or this way -- there were all kinds of ways I could say the right words at that point, Daddy. They *knew* I was upset..." 

"Oh, son..." 

"Yeah. I... so I could say those words, and they would reach for me, and our clothes would be all over the floor before we even made it to the bed, just like it was any other day. 

"Just like the room *was* even bigger than we all dreamed it was," Porthos says, and frowns deeply. "So -- I could see that. And just as quickly, I could see that everything they were saying to me, all the still-*mostly*-polite ways they were finding to try to tell me that I was getting much, *much* too big for my breeches -- 

"I could see that it wasn't going to go anywhere. That it *couldn't* go anywhere. And -- I guess I was almost outside myself? I don't know. It was just... I could *see* it. I could see them trying so *bloody* hard to make me understand, and I could see them *needing* me to understand, needing -- 

"I could see that they were afraid, more than *anything* else, of *losing* me, and of losing *us*, the way we had all lost our other loves. They were *afraid*, and I was making it worse with every class I took, and every moment I spent practicing ways to fix my bloody *diction*. 

"I could see that... and I could see that it didn't matter. That it never *could* matter, because as much as I loved them, as much as I *needed* them, I needed something *else* even more than that," Porthos says, and turns to meet Treville's eyes with a wry smile in his own. 

Treville blinks. "Son?" 

"I almost lost the plot right there, you know. I was bloody *terrified*, Daddy." 

"Of course --" 

"What could I need more than my *heart*? My *home*? My *family*?" 

"Oh... you felt..." 

"I felt *you*, Daddy. Or -- I guess, right then? It was the *absence* of you. I felt -- that *hole* in me, that hole that had *always* been in me, and. And in that moment, I couldn't be any-bloody-thing but honest with myself. 

"Flea and Charon -- they were still talking *at* me, and a *part* of me was taking the words in, but mostly I was pacing. Pacing and *thinking*. 

"Because I felt that hole, that -- that *emptiness*, and I knew in that moment that it had *never* been filled, that nothing *any* of my loves had done or said or *given* me had ever filled it, and that even my *Mum* hadn't been able to fill it -- because she had had that emptiness, too." 

"You knew... oh, son, you knew you'd be empty forever if you *didn't* get out. Right?" 

"Well, almost," Porthos says, and his smile is a little brighter. "I didn't actually believe, at that point, that I'd *really* find whatever or whoever it was I needed to fill that hole even if I did leave the Court. I just knew that I *definitely* never would if I stayed." And the smile almost seems to fall off his son's beautiful face. 

And..."That was what did it. That..." Treville growls helplessly. "It broke you right down, didn't it. That *finality*." 

Porthos's expression twists. "They. They were all I *had*."

"I know, son." 

"They -- and they just kept -- they just kept calling me a *fool*. Calling me -- calling me Monsieur-High-and-Bloody-*Mighty* --" 

Treville growls and stands, pulling Porthos up with him -- 

Into his *arms* -- 

He has to *hold* his son -- 

"You don't -- you --" 

"I always need to hold you, son. I always do." 

"Daddy --" 

"Shh. I do. Just like *you* need to tell me the rest, mm?" And Treville pets his boy in long, firm strokes. 

Porthos shudders and shudders -- 

Makes a low and *sick* noise -- 

"I..." 

"Get it out, son. Get that poison out of you *right* now." 

"Yes. Y-yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and noses at Treville's throat before tucking his face there. "I said it. I said all those -- those *things*. I called them *rats*. I called my. My beautiful Flea... I told her she just wanted to wallow like a *pig*. I told Charon that if all he ever wanted to be was a criminal, after everything we'd been through, then he wasn't. Wasn't *worth* anything. Wasn't a *man*.

"And I watched. Their eyes..." Porthos shudders more. 

"You saw them know the same things *you* knew." 

"*Fuck* --" 

Treville grips his boy *hard* -- 

"*Daddy* --" 

"You saw them learn -- and *understand* -- that the people *they* were in that moment could never hold on to the person *you* were in that moment." 

"It -- it was *over* --" 

"Shh. Think with me for a moment, son," Treville says, petting and making his voice rumble enough for Porthos to *feel* it. 

"I always -- feel --" 

"Shh. Think, son. Think about how long they were your loves. How long they were a part of your *life*, mm?" 

"I -- I -- *Mum* introduced me to Flea..." 

"Oh, son... and Charon?" 

"It -- Didier brought him home. We were -- were were only seven, and he was so small, but still so *smart*, and I could see that he was sad, that he was *hurt*, and I *understood* that. And. And when I finally made him laugh..." 

"It was beautiful, wasn't it." 

"Yes, Daddy, I... please." 

Treville kisses Porthos's ear softly. "I submit to you, son, that it was beautiful for him, as well." 

"I --" 

"That Flea remembers the *exact* look that was on your mother's face when you introduced yourself." 

"She. She did..." 

"That *Charon* remembers when you touched -- *how* you touched, mm?" 

Porthos swallows. "And -- so does Flea..." 

"That's *right*, son. And you're not the same person you were that day. Are you." 

"No. No, Daddy --" 

"No. That hole in you -- well. We don't have our Amina-love, so it'll never *truly* be filled up, but we're both a fuck of a lot warmer and less *lonely* than we *were*. Aren't we." 

"*Yes* --" 

"More to the point...?" And Treville pulls back enough to meet Porthos's gaze. "You know a *lot* more about the sorts of things which drive you, son. Which push you -- and which push you over the *edge*, mm?" 

"Oh -- *yeah*. I have a lot more sodding *control*. And control over my *mouth*." 

Treville nods. "You know... mm. A lot more about a lot of *things*, son. As of today, we've answered any *number* of the burning questions of your childhood -- the very questions your *loves* were convinced never *could* be answered --" 

"And. I could tell them that..." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"I could -- because *they're* probably not the same people they were that day, *either*. I..." Porthos blinks and smiles, small and bright. 

Treville smiles back. "Grief and tragedy -- and never think that that day wasn't a great *deal* of *both*, son -- will change a person. Nearly *any* person. There is a *vanishingly* small number of people whom it *won't* change --" 

"And uh. Most of them aren't really people, Daddy...?" And Porthos has his eyebrows up and the smile on his face is getting brighter by the moment. 

Treville hums and strokes Porthos's cheek with his thumb. "Exactly. I *highly* recommend avoiding them whenever possible." 

Porthos pooches his face up and nods in a mockery of judiciousness. 

Treville grins. "My beautiful son." 

"When I'm making *that* face? I've some questions about your taste, Daddy." 

Treville snorts. "I tended to live for your mother's glares, snarls, scowls... et cetera." 

"... *why*?" 

Treville hums and pulls away from Porthos, gesturing him to follow. 

"Right, all right, but --" 

"Don't get me wrong, son," Treville says, and leads them into the bedroom proper, where *someone* has lit the sconces, which is just perfect. 

"No weapons here, Daddy? Are you sure you feel *safe* enough to sleep in --" 

"Here, son," Treville says, and moves to the one portrait on the walls. It's covered -- it usually is, for any number of reasons. 

None of those reasons have anything to do with preservation, however, because this portrait has more *power* in it than most actual *witches*. 

It... 

"What -- oh. *Oh* -- I feel -- I *feel* --" 

"You feel your mother," Treville says, uncovering the portrait of Amina. 

Amina in her oranges and yellows -- 

Amina laughing *big* -- 

Amina *pointing* and laughing, because when Jason Blood had asked Treville what memory of his love he wished to *preserve* with the few wisps of her which had been lingering in and around the handful of possessions Treville had left... 

Well. 

"You. You needed her laughter," Porthos says, reaching out to caress the air just beyond the surface of the portrait. "You... fuck, I can -- I keep thinking I'll be able to *smell* her if I just..." 

"Mm, I know. The artist Jason commissioned... well. The woman doesn't work for *money*. Jason burned a very, very large favour for this." 

"I. I owe him *everything*." 

"*I* do --" 

"We bloody *both* do," Porthos says and scowls at him. 

Treville grins. "I like that expression, too." 

"I --" 

"*But* I was going to explain something," he says, and gestures to his laughing lady-love. In the warm, subtly-dancing light from the sconces, he can almost see her eyes scrunching and relaxing with mirth...

"Daddy...?" 

Treville... doesn't shake a damned thing off. He takes a breath. "From the first *moment* we met -- I needed to make her laugh. If not *for* me? Then *at* me. Her laughter was the most perfect thing in my world, son. Her laughter lit the sun each and every day and then? When it was done with that? It took a moment to ignite every *flame*." 

"Oh..." 

"Her laughter was *everything*, son." 

"But..." Porthos frowns, finally turning away from the painting to look at him. "You liked the scowls *better*?" 

"Not that, but..." And Treville smiles helplessly. "Did you ever get to see what happened when your mother was a *little* upset -- not *truly* or *direfully* upset; not *wounded* by something injuring her or a loved one -- and then... got chivvied out of it?" 

Porthos *obviously* thinks about it -- 

And Treville can *feel* him lighting up inside with *that* laughter, that *wonderful* laughter -- 

"That -- that *particular* laughter she had when..." Porthos licks his lips and grins at him. "When she felt like *she'd* been just a little ridiculous. When. When she was laughing at *herself* as much as anything else. When she was... chasing all the bad feelings away." 

Treville hums and nods. "That, son. *That*, right there. Because my Amina-love was a sharp woman, and a *demanding* woman, and a *prickly* woman... but she was also about two hundred times as *raucous* as a tavern full of drunk soldiers, cheerful whores, and *generous* barmen. There was nothing, ultimately, that would *keep* her mood black --" 

"And -- you always knew that once it *had* been a little black, it would come back twice as bright later?" 

"That's *right*. Every scowl? No matter how *viscerally* terrifying -- she was not a woman afraid of a little bollocks-torture when necessary --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"*Every* scowl was a sign of brighter things to come." 

"Right, right, let me just..." And Porthos scowls at him *murderously* -- or tries to. 

"Son, can you even *see* with your eyes narrowed that much?" 

"Well... not much out of the bad eye, no." 

"Try it again. More *plausibly* violent." 

"Yeah, lemme --" Porthos licks his lips, smacks his own cheeks a couple of times, and snarls. 

Like...

A human. 

Hm. 

"No, Daddy?"

"No, son. It's possible that we shouldn't be trying to make you *emulate* your mother --" 

"No, no, 'm not trying to *be* her. 's just -- I'd like to... you know."

"Son?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully and nods to the portrait. "She told me once -- *just* once, and I never bloody forgot it -- that if *she* had her way, I'd grow up to be *just* like my father. My *true* father." 

Treville *grunts* -- 

Flushes *hard* -- 

"Son... she. She said that. She said that to me, before you were born," he says, and squeezes his eyes shut -- no. No. He *opens* his eyes. "She told me she would raise you to be 'beautiful, and bold, and dashing, and wild.'" 

"Oh --" 

"She said: 'He will be *perfect*, sweet brother. Just. Like. *You*.'," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

Porthos blinks. "She uh. She might've liked you a bit." 

Treville pooches up his own face and wags his head a little. 

Porthos's laugh, this time, is more than a little breathless -- and his smack is off-center, too. 

"Son...?" 

"I... I wonder. How *you* feel about it." And he blushes *violently* -- but doesn't *stop*. "I wonder -- if you think she. Succeeded." 

Treville takes a *breath* -- and then cups Porthos's face with one hand. "When I look at you, son... all I can *see* is you. All I can see is the beautiful, bold, wild and bright and brilliant, sweet and mad and loving, dashing and brave and *magnificent* man you are. *You* are -- not a copy of me *or* your mother. I see you -- and I love everything *about* you." 

Porthos moans, low and -- hungry. It...

Treville moves his hand. "Will you stay here tonight, son? Alaire has *absolutely* prepared your suite." 

"My -- what?" 

Treville smiles wryly... and nods to the empty crib which has pride of place near the windows. "Did you really think you *didn't* have a suite in this house, son?" 

"Uhh..." 

"In every last *one* of my properties...?" 

"I... suppose I should've thought of that." 

Treville inclines his head and steps back. "Let me show you --" 

"Daddy." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos's gaze is... hot. *Hard*. 

"Son?" 

"'s a little early to put your boy to *bed*, don't you think?" 

Fuck. "We can keep talking in the sitting room --" 

"Or we can do what we both *actually* want to do," Porthos says and rests his hand low on Treville's abdomen, palm flat and promising. 

"Is that really where you want to touch me -- that. That isn't what I wanted to say," Treville says, and gives himself a *shake* -- 

"No...? Are you *sure* about that?" 

Treville growls and *covers* Porthos's hand on his belly, squeezing it firmly -- and nodding to the portrait of their Amina. 

Porthos stiffens, just a little. 

"What I'm sure of, son, is that there are things we haven't *quite* discussed today, even among all the others." 

Porthos winces hard. "I -- I want you, Daddy." 

"I want you, too, son. I *ache* for you. Let's... let's try to be a little careful of ourselves, mm? I can't ever hurt you." 

Porthos swallows and nods. "So uh... back to the sitting room? And all the weapons aimed at my poor, unsuspecting *bollocks*?" 

"Son, if your bollocks don't suspect anything, yet, we may have a problem."

Porthos snorts and smacks him -- 

And Treville grins and -- leads them both to the bed. 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"It doesn't --" Treville laughs at himself and shakes his head. "I'm almost certainly lying to myself in eight different ways, but... we're both theoretically adults, son," he says, and raises an eyebrow as he sits on the side of the bed. 

"That we are, Daddy," Porthos says, and sits beside him. "We are definitely adults who can have adult-type conversations about adult-type things while sitting on a bed after drinking literally *all* day and it doesn't have to lead *anywhere* in particular." 

"Hm. I..." 

"Yeah, Daddy? Wait, no," Porthos says, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrows. "Make it *good*, now." 

"*Fuck*." 

Porthos guffaws, throwing his head back for it *precisely* the way his mother would.

Just -- massively. 

*Beautifully*. 

And, as soon as Treville has picked his mind up off the floor, he drinks it in.


	8. About a bed.

When they stop laughing, their boots are off, and they're lying side-by-side in more or less the configuration the bed recommends. 

Porthos has one knee up, and one hand behind his head. 

Treville has his ankles crossed, and one hand resting on his chest. 

Their other hands are twined together, and, while there *are* several ways this could be even better for Treville, the fact remains that *this*... is perfectly wonderful. 

"But if it could be *better* --" 

"Shh." 

"Daddy --" 

"Let's talk *first*, mm?" 

Porthos turns on the pillow to *look* at him. 

"All right, son. Think, for a moment, of the *last* time I had a chance to lie beside my beautiful son, and smell all of his scents, and feel his strong hand gripping mine." 

Porthos blinks --

Gives himself a *shake* -- 

"Right, um. Got it." 

Treville laughs softly and squeezes Porthos's hand. "My son." 

"No butterflies here for me to smash up." 

"There's a mobile over the bed in your suite," Treville says, as blandly as he *possibly* can. 

"You're such an arse." 

"That I am, son. That I --" 

"Wait." 

"Mm?" And Treville turns on *his* pillow to look at Porthos -- 

Who is frowning. "You've had that suite ready for me for *years*." 

"Since you were old enough *for* a suite of your own, son." 

"Right, and -- I bet it was full of toys and such..." 

"From the *entire* pack, son. Kitos especially loved going toy-shopping for you boys." 

"Aww, that's -- but wait." 

"I'm listening, son," Treville says, and fights *back* the smile... 

"You *arse*. You know *exactly* what I want to ask!" 

Treville snickers. "Your suite is not *still* full of lovingly crafted toys, games, and other amusements more appropriate for a three-year-old than a *twenty*-three-year-old." 

Porthos breathes a sigh of relief. 

"I still have every last *one* of those toys --" 

"Daddy." 

"Because they're *yours*, son --" 

"I --" 

"And the day I throw *out* something which belongs to you is, frankly, the forty-fifth of Febrember." 

Porthos coughs. "I -- uh. Right," he says, and nods judiciously. "You just uh. Carry on with that, Daddy." 

"That I will, son." 

"I'm pretty sure I have a pair of hole-y socks you can tuck tenderly in your breeches, whenever you're of a mind to." 

"Oh, son, no." 

"No?" 

Treville waggles two fingers on his free hand. "One? Alaire's already been dispatched to your rooms to acquire every last fragrant item of clothing you own --" 

"I hate you sometimes, Daddy." 

"And *two*... you and I both know there's just no *room* in these breeches for anything *else*, son." 

"I *really* hate -- what do you even *pay* your retainers that they put *up* with you?" 

Treville lets his straight face go and snickers hard and long. "Oh, son. In the old days, I gave the kitchen and stable boys... bonuses, shall we say?" 

"Oh my *God* --" 

"I grew *out* of that, with my pack's *most* welcome assistance," Treville says, sighing and humming. "Now... well. I make a point of paying my staff what I think they *deserve*, which, since they usually wind up working harder on a day-to-day basis than *you* boys do..." And he raises an eyebrow. 

"Bloody hell. *Why* -- no. That was about to be a *remarkably* stupid question," Porthos says, laughing and pushing a hand back through his curls. 

"Son?" 

He shakes his head. "We both know why the rest of the bloody French peerage isn't *like* you, Daddy." 

"Ah. Well..." Treville squeezes Porthos's hand. "Your grandfather was raised to this, as I've said. He did his damnedest to *keep* me -- all of us kids, but *especially* me -- from growing into just another noble pillock, even as he was *also* doing his damnedest -- with the help of his lieutenants -- to teach us how to *live* in this world." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"Oh, yes, son. He..." Treville smiles wryly. "'Honour your brothers, for brotherhood is the highest honour'. He told me far more than once that he wanted me to remember *that* of him if I remembered nothing else -- and to *teach* that to every child I managed to have. To teach them that no matter what the King, the peerage, and the country *itself* looked like by the time they'd grown into men and women, they should -- *always* -- first look to their brothers and sisters beside them. 

"Look to their *loves*, whether or not those loves were blood to them, because countries? Lords and ladies? *Kings*?" 

"They -- they all fall, sooner or later," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "They all *fail*, in one way or another." 

"That's right, son. What my Dad taught me -- what he hammered *home* -- was that *true* brotherhood was something that need never fall or fail, at all." 

Porthos takes a deep breath. "Right, Daddy, I hear you. And -- it explains a lot about you across the *board*, really." 

"I thought it might," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hand. "It also explains a lot about *him*." 

"Yeah, eh?" 

Treville does his best to make his gesture take in the whole of the house. "My Dad didn't live to buy this property, but the large-ish estate outside of Paris is his from top to bottom. And he *hated* it." 

"Oh -- *why*? I've heard it's really pretty out there." 

"It is, son. He had apple trees planted all *over* for my mother -- well. He hated it because it was much too big for his tastes, and much too big to *heat* effectively, and *required* him to hire what he thought of as a civilian *army* solely to wipe his *arse* --" 

Porthos coughs -- "I uh. I'm getting the point, I think." 

Treville hums. "He told me -- and his lieutenants told me, and my *mother* told me -- that all he'd ever really wanted when he was a common soldier doing his best to scrape enough coins together for a night of carousing with a sweet-smelling bed at the end of it, was a comfortable patch of land big enough for a *small* and *cozy* cottage -- and some decent stables. 

"That was the dream in his mind when he'd let the recruiter talk him into the Army, and that was *still* the dream in his mind when he was raised. So, when he was informed in no uncertain terms that there would *have* to be a manor house...?" 

"*And* servants, *and* fuck-awful clothes for him and his family, *and* diction lessons, *and* pretty horses instead of *proper* horses... fuck, he had to have wanted to run right back to his regiment!" 

"That is, in fact, what he said about the matter, son," Treville says, and grins. "He said, and I'm quoting: 'I spent a goodly period of time thinking right fondly of the *inside* of cannons.'"

Porthos snorts hard -- 

Treville grins. "So. *That* was at least *some* of what was going through your grandfather's mind when he instituted his program." 

"His...?" 

"Another quote: 'By god, Seb --' Sébastien was the lieutenant of his he most often awarded the *thankless* task of making me fit for noble consumption --" 

"Right, go on --" 

"Mm. 'By god, Seb, I'll walk and talk and *dress* like a prissy little pillock for these stuffed capons we call *nobility*, and I'll let you teach my poor, innocent children to do the same -- and worse! I'll do all that *silently* and in my *best* impression of good bloody *cheer*. But? I'll be *damned* if I run this massive, draughty, pretentious stack of *bricks* like anything but a *tavern*.'"

Porthos blinks. 

Looks toward the sitting room --

Flares his nostrils *precisely* like a man remembering Treville's chambermaids in action -- 

Treville sighs happily -- 

"Right, well, now I just want to know how you go about *interviewing* for a job like that, *Daddy*." 

"I --" 

"'Well, let's see, Mademoiselle. You say you can cook, clean, and serve, and that's all well and *good* --'" 

"Son --" 

"'-- but, really, have you put any time and effort into developing your skills as a brutal cock-tease?'" 

"The lasses will be *very* glad to know you approve --" 

"Such an *arse* -- and." 

"Mm? What is it, son?" 

Porthos looks pained. "You haven't even come *close* to explaining the fact that your sitting room *could outfit the regiment*." 

"Ah, well. That's simple enough --" 

"That *worries* me." 

Treville snorts. "Son." 

Porthos grins at him and squeezes his hand. "Go on, tell me." 

"Right you are. The bed in the master suite outside of Paris is -- massive. *Sprawling*." 

"Bigger than this, then?" 

"By a fair margin. It's also almost *ludicrously* soft. Henri -- who *already* approved of your grandfather as a military man in a sea of, well, *capons*; raising him was never *just* a matter of expedience -- happened to overhear your grandfather waxing positively poetic -- in his way -- about your grandmother not long after all the ceremonies and what-not. Dad was talking to -- *lecturing*, as he'd tell it -- one of the low-ranking pages who'd wandered up to him and who'd been hoping to make some connections -- and bank some favours -- by *connecting* Dad to a marquise who was decidedly in the mood for an interlude with a rough-and-tumble soldier. 

"Dad had more than a few things to say about things like that over the years, though, being as how he always kept himself sober as a judge at palace functions, he managed, at the time, to limit himself to a lengthy speech about my mother's *numerous* virtues, and the importance of being a good partner *to* one's partner in life, and how a young man like the page would do well to start his *search* for a partner... and so on."

"Right, that page must've been withering like a bloody hothouse flower, but your Dad sounds *amazing*. What happened with Henri? What about the bed?"

"Henri stepped into the conversation, brushing off the Duc who'd been trying to get royal attention for fuck only knows how long -- and the Duc's *daughter*, whom the Duc had absolutely been trying to pimp to Henri." 

"Eurgh --" 

"Exactly, son. But -- what you need to know about Henri is that he was a man who loved his pleasures at *least* as much as any man. With at least as much *passion* as any man." 

"I'd heard that..." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. "There's more?" 

"There's more. Because Henri didn't just use his *cock* for his affairs; he used his *mind* for them -- whether or not he was also using the deepest fastnesses of his heart. He wasn't a mindless rakehell, and he was just as likely to lose himself to the *dubious* pleasures of a *stupid* woman as *you* are." 

Porthos blinks and *obviously* thinks about it... "He liked the way your Dad talked about your Mum. He -- he liked it the way *I* like the way you talk about women." 

"That's right, son. And then, as now, there was little enough of that in the French court, which helped aim even *more* knives at *both* of them --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"-- but that's another tale," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hand again. "I was talking about the *bed*." 

"All right..." 

Treville laughs. "Henri *insisted* that your grandfather, who he knew perfectly well was already *reeling* from all the new responsibilities *and* the new powers, should have a *reward* which *suited* the man he was." 

"A... bed?" 

"Not just any bed, son. A *marriage* bed. A bed as fine and beautiful and magnificent and et cetera and so on as the marriage Dad had made with -- not to, *with* -- his wife. So, he took Dad quite literally in hand -- despite being a solid eight inches shorter than he was -- and hauled him back to his personal quarters, ignoring *everyone* waiting for a chance to bask in the royal presence that night. And then?" 

"He... no, I'm still lost here, Daddy. Did he tell him to pick out one of *his* beds? What?" 

"Nothing so crass, son. He sent a courtier to send a page to send a brace of *soldiers* to ride hellbent-for-leather and summon Erhart Hermann Strauss to the royal presence --" 

"Um." 

"Strauss was, at the time, the owner and primary *artist* of the Strauss and Sons Möbelhaus, who, of course, were the only firm which *deserved* the king's custom -- the king's *massive* amount of custom -- when it came to the crafting of beds and other furnishings for his legion of mistresses." 

"But uh. Mostly beds, eh?" 

"He had his priorities in order, son." 

"That --" Porthos splutters. "All right, fine, so the first piece of furniture in the big house is the bed. It's huge, it's soft -- and. Really? I wouldn't think your Dad would agree to *that*." 

"According to my *mother* -- from whom I got *most* of this story, you understand --" 

"Right, yeah." 

"Mm, well. Dad apparently did put up some resistance when Henri started campaigning for the finest, softest eiderdown for the mattress and bedding, being as how he'd been a soldier since he was *fifteen*, and had been *poor* before then, and had thus had the best, most restful sleep of his life on pallets or grassy *swards*." 

"It was uh. Pretty feeble resistance at that point, wasn't it." 

"Henri was the *King*, son. The King who had known -- and *known* -- positive *armies* of women over the years, and could opine, with weight behind it, about the *preferences* of those women when it came to what they slept on. Especially once they started having children. The flag your grandfather was flying was bleached of *all* colour, son." 

Porthos snickers. "All *right*. So, big, soft bed that your Dad loathes with a *fiery* passion, and would rather wallow in literal muck than try to sleep in?" 

"That's about the size of it, son," Treville says, and grins. "My mother loved it *just* as much as Henri thought she would, though, and cheerfully refused to even consider letting Dad haul her ashes on *any* of the other -- firmer -- beds on the property --" 

"You uh. Knew that, too?" 

"I eavesdropped on every possible conversation I could when it came to my father, son -- when I couldn't get the information I wanted by *asking*. *Everyone*. I -- well." And Treville raises his eyebrows at Porthos. 

Porthos blinks -- "You did say you wanted to *be* him, yeah. All right, then. I get *that* well enough." 

"I wanted a lot more than that, from time to time, son. But -- that's another tale, too." 

"It -- what?"

They're blushing together again, but -- "Let me finish the tale of the bed, hm? And Dad's *solution* to the problem." 

"All right, Daddy, but..." And Porthos searches Treville's eyes. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "There's not a damned thing I'll hide from you, son," he says, and brings their twined hands to his mouth for a kiss. 

Porthos's eyes are wide -- he nods. "Yes, Daddy. Thank you." 

"Thank *you* for listening. I've needed so *badly* to talk to *you* about everything in my mind -- and to tell tales to my *son*."

Porthos smiles softly -- and blushes that much harder. "So um. If your Dad *didn't* sleep with your Mum when he was home from campaign...?"

Treville grins. "Dad traveled everywhere -- *everywhere* -- with his lieutenants. His *brothers*. They were *his* pack in *many* ways, though not quite as formally as anything I've had. Still, those eleven men were *absolutely* my Uncles, and, right up until the day he died, there was *never* a time when fewer than six of them were at his side." 

"Oh -- even with *them* going on leave and -- things like that?" 

"Those men had made the Army their lives. Their *family* to a *very* large extent -- the *largest* extent. Life and family beyond that...? I was as much *their* 'little terror' as I was my Dad's, and I can't *count* the number of times one or more of those men took me aside to lecture and *advise* me on how I might find a woman as perfect as my mother, so as to make a marriage as perfect as my Dad had." 

"Uhh..." 

"Exactly, son. One of *many*... problems I have with Marie de Medici?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"She allowed Henri's -- and my father's -- various enemies to take over the Army, and reorganize it with a mind toward vengeance rather than anything like strength, efficiency, the protection of the *country* --" Treville growls. "Dad's regiment was destroyed. Broken and *scattered*. Ostensibly used to shore up other regiments, but *truly* used as an *example* of what would happen to any soldier who tried to get *above* himself -- I. This isn't what I mean to talk about," Treville says, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. 

Porthos squeezes his other hand. "I want to hear everything, you know." 

"I want to *tell* you everything, and I --" Treville drops his hand and takes a breath. "I used to have... plans." 

"Mm?" 

"Where to start. Which *stories* to start with, son. Which stories *those* stories would lead to, and which ones would follow from *there*..." Treville winces. "The problem... the problem is that your mother was supposed to be here to help." 

"Oh -- fuck, Daddy --" 

"And then -- your Aunt and Uncles..."

Porthos rolls on his side and cuddles up to Treville -- aggressively. One long leg pinning Treville's, one arm over Treville's waist, head firmly on Treville's *shoulder* -- 

The squeeze forces out a good bit of *air* -- 

Treville sighs out much of the rest. "This -- is wonderful. *Wonderful*. Thank you, son." 

"I love it, too, you know." 

"You... haven't had it since that fight with your loves," Treville says, frowning and stroking Porthos's hair. 

"*You* haven't had it since --" Porthos shudders. "We both know when you lost Athos's parents, eh?"

"So we do, son." 

"So -- let's uh. Let's fix this thing where neither of us have had what we need." 

Treville closes his eyes and holds his beautiful boy -- 

"Oh -- yeah, Daddy..." 

"Your grandfather, whenever he was home, slept on the *floor*." 

"Right, that -- that makes sense. Soldier, and all." 

"He slept on the floor of the *sitting* room, son." 

"But..." 

"*With* his lieutenants -- however many of them he'd carted along with him --" 

"I."

Treville grins. "He was never the sort of commander to lord it *over* his men, son." 

"Right, but --" 

"He never *once* let me forget that it was only the poorest, *weakest*, most *unfit* commanders who left their men to suffer while --" 

"Daddy." 

Treville snickers hard. "He didn't sleep in that bed until he died in it, son, and my mother..." He sighs. "I remember, from all the mornings when I would come *running* into their suite so *I* could roll around on the floor with all the men..." 

"What *did* she have to say about it all when she got woken up every morning by the bloody *regiment* in her bloody *boudoir*?" 

"Not a word, son." 

"Aww, *really*?"

"Mm. I *did* find it curious that my younger brother Michel started his harpsichord lessons so young when he had shown not one *bit* of aptitude for it. Or for any musical instrument, at all. Or for any part of the *concepts* of 'music' or 'harmony' or... anything but howling cacophony, truly." 

"Uhh. He uh. Those lessons took place in the master suite, didn't they." 

"Bright and early, son. *Every* day." 

Porthos snorts *hard*. "Right, well, I feel better." 

Treville grins. "My mother always urged Michel to play *most*... passionately, shall we say?" 

"We shall, we *shall*," Porthos says, and nods judiciously. 

"That's *right*. And... let's just say that Dad and his men learned *quickly* not to talk and laugh and *drink* the moon down in that sitting room, as opposed to *elsewhere* on the property. And? As *Darien* -- another of Dad's lieutenants -- explained to me, during one of *his* lectures on the importance of finding a partner as perfect and perfect for *me* as my mother was for my father, they *also* all learned *other* lessons about life at home, among women and other non-combatants," Treville says, and waits...

Porthos squeezes him. "Like maybe the lesson about how it can be a good thing to talk and laugh and drink the moon down with *them*, *too*? Even if you *aren't* getting your ashes hauled at the end of the conversation?"

"That's *right*, son. Though..." Treville laughs a little helplessly. 

"Mm? What is it?" 

"Before those two agues *destroyed* the family? The *family* was rather large and all-encompassing -- for me and Dad and the lieutenants, away on campaign all the time, *and* for my siblings, their tutors, my father's men about the house, the maids and their *numerous* children -- all of whom bore *striking* resemblances to my *Uncles* --" 

Porthos *snorts* -- 

"-- and, of course, for my mother, who wrote to us religiously in her broad, shaky hand. She kept me posted about all the goings-on at home, and." Treville takes a breath. "And when the *first* ague took Dad and my little sister Anne, she was almost *relentlessly* brave about it, filling her letter with funny stories about both of them -- including all the detail about her marriage bed that I'd never known before." 

"Oh..." 

"I carried that letter with me..." Treville smiles ruefully. "All over the country, to every posting I had. All over the *continent*. When it was finally too soaked in blood, sweat, and everything *else* to read anymore? I brought it back to the manor, and tucked it in my father's scabbard with his sword, which hangs with pride of place next to the bedroom door." 

Porthos nods slowly. "And -- all those other weapons belong to his lieutenants, yeah? *Both* here and there." 

"That's right, son. The men... they *dedicated* their favourite weapons to him, right then and there. That sitting room is his real grave -- far more than any plot of dirt ever could be." 

"Aw, that's -- fuck, that's really beautiful." 

Treville grins. "I always thought so." 

"And it's why you brought *some* of the weapons here -- so you could have as much of your Dad with you in this new place as possible? As much of your *family*." 

"My whole childhood, son -- I was a very happy boy. Though Darien, Sylvain, Milo -- a few of the others who had *survived* long enough to see me an adult with rooms in Paris?" 

"Yeah? Oh -- they *absolutely* hung a few more weapons on your wall, didn't they." 

Treville laughs ruefully. "And ruffled my hair, called me 'little terror', and took me out whoring." 

Porthos snorts again. "You thought sure you were going to wake up in short pants, didn't you." 

"Son, it was all I could *do* to not get so drunk that I confessed, to them, my *many* years of wanking myself senseless to dreams of being passed around by the eleven of them and *used* until I was leaking spend to my *ankles*." 

"Uh. *All* of them?" 

"Every last one of them, son. They were -- all -- among the *gigantic* building blocks of my sexuality." 

"... among?" 

Treville smiles wryly and brings Porthos's hand to his mouth for another kiss. "I should say... I told your mother about my parents' sleeping arrangements, of course." 

"Oh -- what did *she* say about it?" 

Treville grins at his perfect son. "She said, and I quote: 'Sweet brother. If you so much as *think* about trying such a thing with *me*? I will take each and every one of your brothers in the *regiment* to bed. I will do this *alphabetically*, so as to be *absolutely* certain that I do not miss a single *one*. And? I will do this *vigorously* and *loudly* and *enthusiastically* with *all* the ones I can smell that you *dislike*.'" 

Porthos *splutters* -- 

"I *immediately* developed a deep and *abiding* fondness for warm, soft beds filled with warm, soft people," Treville says, and grins. 

"Good -- good on you, Daddy," Porthos says, and laughs more. "Fuck, d'you think she would've really..." 

"Your mother never lied to me, son. Not *once*." 

Porthos *guffaws*, moving *both* of them --

Treville grins... but. There are other things to discuss.


	9. Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for our loved ones is to *stop* trying to walk in their shoes, as opposed to our own, on the road beside them.

(Mm?) "What? What is it, Daddy?" 

"I... could honestly spend all night holding you and talking about everything that comes to mind, son," Treville says. 

"But there are *specific* things you want to talk about? Or specific things you *don't* want to talk about but think we *should*?" 

"You... are the most beautiful and perfect --" 

"Daddy..." 

"I want to speak to you about desire, son. I want..." Treville winces. "I also want to... a very large and *vocal* part of me wants to *believe* that we could have *this*. Touch. Conversation. *Laughter*. Warmth in the *dark* --" 

"We *can*, Daddy. We *do* --" 

"I want to believe that we can have it... without my idiot, needy cock aching for more." 

"Uhh." Porthos rolls back onto his side enough to *look* at him. "Have we or have we *not* established certain facts about my *own* idiot, needy cock?" 

And that...

That is... 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Daddy, what --" 

"Son. I..." Treville opens his eyes and *searches* his son, tries to see... 

"*Ask* me whatever it is, Daddy. Let's -- *let's* talk more," Porthos says, and half-absently strokes Treville's chest through his shirt. 

Treville stops his hand.

"Daddy --" 

"Son. Is it truly..." He shakes his head once. "What is this to *you*, son. What does it *feel* like, in your beautiful heart, to desire your *father*?" 

Porthos blushes -- so deeply. 

And Treville smiles ruefully. "That, son. *That*. Because I love you. I'm *in* love with you even beyond how much I *hunger* for you. How much I *need* you. I love you far, far too much to leave you with. With the kind of *hurt* I felt in the days when the *only* person I was truly in love with was *my* father." 

"Uhh... fuck?" 

Treville nods. "I'm late. I'm *painfully* late to figure this out, that *you* might --" He winces and shakes his head. "When we learned the truth earlier today? Your scents and flavours and everything else were *high* in my nose, and all I could think about for *much* too long was that you weren't *recoiling* from me, even though you knew. I didn't think about myself, or how I eventually wound up feeling as an *adult* who was *still* in love with his father, surrounded by people who..." Treville swallows. "All I could think about earlier, all I could *see*, was the fact that you weren't ashamed of *either* of us --" 

"No -- of bloody *course* not --" 

"That you weren't *hurt* --" 

"'m -- I'm *not*, Daddy. I *promise*," Porthos says, twisting his hand free of Treville's grip and cupping Treville's face. "I couldn't ever be ashamed of *anything* that made you *happy* -- and that made you happy with *me*." 

Treville grunts and -- aches. Just -- 

"*Go* with that, Daddy. *Be* with me --" 

"Son. I felt. I felt just that way. Just the way *you* feel right *now*... at first," Treville says, and the smile on his face makes him feel like he's bleeding. 

"I. Daddy...? Did. Did your Dad..." 

"Oh -- no, son. *No*. Not that. *Never* that -- or anything like it. Your grandfather, as far as my *extremely* fixated investigations on the matter could discern, never had any sexual contact with a male of *any* age, and left young *girls* behind with his own youth. He was a man for women and *only* women, and, with time, he was a man for only your *grandmother*." 

"And -- you knew that," Porthos says. The question is in his eyes. 

"By the time I was ten? I could smell it, son. By the time I was *eleven*, I could attach a large number of concepts, acts, and *desires* to each individual scent. Even before I was *bound* to a dog-spirit, my senses were... precisely what they were. It's who the de Peyrer family *are* -- and have *always* been." 

Porthos nods, taking a relieved breath. "So... it wasn't your Dad who made you all... hurt and ashamed and fucked-up, then." 

"No, son. And it wasn't..." Treville shakes his head. "It was no one person. It was no one *conversation*."

"Then..." Porthos frowns at him. 

Treville smiles wryly and cups Porthos's hand on his cheek. "It was every person I knew I'd never truly be able to *have* a conversation about love with. It was every perfectly wonderful person who grows up with *entirely reasonable* ideas about sex and sexuality -- and what their places are and *aren't* between parents and children. As I grew older, son?" 

"I -- yeah?" 

"It was every lovely and *likely* lad who took one look at me, one *listen* to my *seduction*, and knew full well that he could wrap me *firmly* round his little fingers by calling me 'Daddy' and letting me pet and cosset him before and after I fucked him blind. It was the *measuring* -- and pitying -- looks in just a *few* of those boys' eyes if I took a little too *long* with the Daddying. If I showed a little too much hunger for... well." 

"Fuck..." 

"Mm. It was my *pack*, son. My pack, warm and close and *perfect* around me -- so warm that I *realized*, with a nasty start, that I'd been freezing for *years* --" 

"They -- did *they* -- I mean. I know they didn't sodding *reject* you for this. The people you've been showing me and *telling* me about *wouldn't*," Porthos says, and he's -- pleading. 

Treville sits up against the headboard and drags his son's strong hand back down to his chest. Back down over his pounding heart. 

"Did -- did *Mum* --" 

"They didn't reject me, son. Not one of them. They didn't -- it wasn't that." 

Porthos takes a *deep* breath -- and doesn't stop frowning. "What was it?" 

"That... the memory I showed you. With Laurent speaking about the 'neverending burgeoning of possibilities.'" 

"Right, yeah, I remember. He made it sound like all of you were just -- like there was nothing *any* of you could say or do that could chase the others away. More than that -- he made it sound like there wasn't anything all of you couldn't *share*," Porthos says, and he's pleading again. 

"That's right, son. And it was *mostly* true." 

"Oh." 

"I even..." Treville laughs. "The others teased me about young girls the way *you* do, son. I saw my cock's life flash before its single eye in pigtails and a pinafore, let them enjoy my misery, *enjoyed* them enjoying my misery -- it was all wonderful. Every moment." 

"Until... until the parenting came up." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "It wasn't terrible, son. There's nothing *terrible* about your loves *not* being in love with their parents and/or guardians --" 

"But --" 

"But, yes. There was always a moment... I would wish..." Treville winces. "I would wish, so *badly*, that they could... divorce themselves from my fixations. That they could look at me and my fixations, my needs, my *loves* as something *wholly* apart from them so that, when they imagined my entirely romantic and sexual love for my father, they would not *immediately* begin trying to imagine themselves into a similar emotional situation with their own parents... and making themselves recoil." 

"Oh, Daddy..." 

"I could always smell it, son. Whether or not I could *see* it," Treville says. "So, what I did with them -- all of them, *including* your mother --" 

"Aw -- *shit* --" 

"-- was... redirect, as much as was possible. When I needed, desperately, to speak about my fixation, to share it in *some* way among us, I would speak only about my *own* need to parent young boys, and to do so sexually. Which... well. That became a *bit* problematic in and of *itself*..." 

"*Fuck* -- how -- how did you *deal* with this all *alone*, Daddy?" 

Treville laughs softly. "Things did change over the years, son --" 

"But did they get better or *worse*?" 

"Better -- for me." 

"But not for the *others*?" 

Treville looks down at the rumpled sheets between them. But only for a moment. "First and foremost? Neither your mother nor I were *entirely* naive when it came to the *realities* of binding ourselves to each other -- and to *you*. Your mother and I had any number of lengthy and... I believe the word you used was *humid*? Discussions about how all of that *might* go once you came of age."

"Oh -- *shit* --"

"Yes, son. It --" 

"But *wait*." 

"Of course," Treville says, and holds Porthos's hand to his chest only loosely. Only that. 

"It --" Porthos shakes his head. "You said your fantasies of getting me back didn't have anything to *do* with sex, Daddy -- or. No. It would've been making *love*. Right?" 

"I also said they were *fantasies*, son," Treville says, and scrubs his free hand down over his face. 

He can feel exactly how pained his expression is -- 

"I -- no, I won't be flippant. In the end, I've grown into a man who is capable of telling himself any number of lies at *once*. *Sometimes* the fact that I know that very well is enough to keep me honest in my head and heart. Sometimes? It is not." 

Porthos swallows. "And definitely not when it comes to... parenting?"

"Perhaps... perhaps some *few* things are a little too *close* to my head and heart, son," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "Too... too close for me to see as clearly as I ought."

Porthos nods. "You should... let me help with that, Daddy," he says, and his voice is low and soft. Effortlessly suggestive. 

Treville's breathing hitches -- 

Catches on a hungry *ache* -- 

"Son, wait. Wait just --

"Daddy --" 

"I think... let me tell you a little more, mm?" 

Porthos frowns and nods. "All right, Daddy. Tell me." 

"Thomas, son. *Thomas* knows a secret... well. He knows something Athos has never *let* himself know. Not about me... and not about his parents and other Uncles," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks a little rapidly for a moment -- and then nods again. "So it got better *that* way, too. All of you... the adults wound up... sharing. *This* fixation. All of you -- you wound up wanting Athos and Thomas as they got older, and -- you're pretty sure Thomas knew it?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "Thomas asked me about it, son. Me -- and no one else. He was fifteen, and it was clear that he'd put a great deal of time and effort into *crafting* questions that I would have to answer at least *partially* -- unless I fled from him headlong." 

"You answered every last one of his questions *fully* -- and damned well encouraged him to ask more."

"That I did, son. And then, when he told me he was done -- for the time being -- I asked him if he would like for me to ask his parents to speak to him about it, too..." Treville flares his nostrils for the remembered scents of Thomas's mildest, *muskiest* perfume -- 

The one Marie-Angelique had chosen *especially* to please the hounds of her acquaintance -- and then *ceded* to her beautiful, beautiful son. 

He shakes himself back to the present. "He told me he'd think about it. He told me he was grateful for my *candour*. And then... he asked me, formally, to both retain my silence around Olivier and to help their parents do the *same*." 

Porthos winces. "He knew Athos couldn't really..." 

"That's right, son. I..." Treville growls. "As to the other... well, Kitos and Reynard were lost to us by the time Thomas and I had that conversation, but it was all of us. *All* of us. And your mother... well, I knew her. She would've been *right* there with the rest of us. It wouldn't have stayed *solely* about the binding among the three of *us* with her. We -- no, never mind *me*. *I* was built for this from the ground *up* --" 

"You really sodding were! But..." 

"So were they, in their ways, son. Laurent finished the job of *raising* me and Kitos -- when he was Honoré. And he damned well fell in *extremely* sticky love with us while he was doing it. Honoré left his eleven younger brothers and sisters to enlist so he could send money home, but it had always been his *responsibility* to take care of the little ones -- when he wasn't out becoming the best damned poacher France has ever *seen*, anyway. To keep them fed and warm and safe and comfortable while the children a little older than the littlest ones helped their parents do the backbreaking work of keeping their farm producing the little it *did* produce." 

"And... he never did *completely* lose the need to take care of people. Did he." 

"Did you, son? Now that *you've* left all your little ones behind?"

Porthos laughs painfully. "Most of *my* little ones didn't *survive*, but -- fuck, no. You can *guess* which brothels I haunt." 

"That I can, son -- and Kitos haunted the same ones *with* me."

"Right, all right. And your Reynard? Marie-Angelique? And -- what the hell was *Mum* doing that got her like *this*?" 

"Reynard spent his *life* with a *desperate* weakness for people he could teach. *Anything*. People with whom he could *prove*, once and for all, that he was more than what his parents, the priest, and his *first* commanding officer *said* he was. He wasn't an intellectual of *any* stripe, and he wasn't the sort to lecture or bluster, but give him twenty minutes with an untrained child who, just as an example, shows an interest in a blade? At the end of those twenty minutes you *will* have a child who is thinking seriously about becoming an assassin when she or he grows up." 

Porthos *coughs* -- "And uh. Maybe riding Reynard's cock on the *way* to bigger and better and bloodier things?" 

"No maybes about it, son. *You* saw how pretty he was." 

"*Right*. Next?" 

"Marie-Angelique was one of the most *cheerfully* *manipulative* people I've ever met -- and I mean that as a compliment, son. She was the beautiful, charming, brilliant and seductive and *deadly* spider at the center of every web, and, while she'd had no way to realize such a thing early in life? None of us were at *all* surprised, ultimately, to see her grow into the mother she became.

"A mother who could look at her two boys -- beautiful, brilliant, *exceptional* boys -- take their general drives toward good behaviour, and *craft* and *twist* and *shape* those drives into pure, unstinting desire for her... guidance." Treville spreads his hands.

"Bloody hell..."

"Your mother, son?" 

Porthos takes another breath -- 

Gives himself a *shake* -- 

Frowns...

"No, son? We don't have to --" 

"No, I..." Porthos frowns a little harder. "'s just I'm getting *really* disturbed by how *good* it feels to shake." 

Treville snorts. "Ah. Well, if it makes you feel better, son?" 

"I'm worried about what's going to come out of your mouth, but go on." 

Treville grins. "When your *mother* started needing to give herself good shakes? *She* had to figure out what the bloody hell to do about her -- wonderful -- *breasts*." 

"I." Porthos frowns. 

*Direfully*. 

*Blackly* -- "I never saw her jiggle. Not *once*." 

"She locked them down pretty tightly during the day, son. Sometimes at night, too -- though only when I'd erred *very* badly."

"What -- hunh. We couldn't afford for her to have corsets or anything like that --" 

Treville hums. "When I asked your mother if she was *truly* certain that she didn't want French undergarments? She asked *me* if I was truly certain that I wanted to keep *all* of my cock." 

Porthos snickers like a boy before sobering himself *badly* -- and nodding mock-judiciously. "A goodly answer, I think." 

"And true, yes," Treville says, and grins. 

Porthos smiles and searches him -- 

*Studies* him -- 

And Treville can't stop himself from stroking Porthos's face with his free hand. Tracing the lines of it; from his broad, clear brow to his soft mouth. 

"It's not swollen anymore. Is it." 

Treville's fingers *twitch* on Porthos's mouth -- "Son --" 

"Tell me about Mum. Tell me... how she *got* there." 

Treville breathes -- and nods. And moves to tick off points on his fingers. "One: A happy, warm, loving childhood cut *brutally* short. Two: This was followed by an *interminably* long childhood and adolescence with no kindness, care, love, or *sweetness* -- save for that which was intermittently provided by one of the older slaves in the household, a nurse and nanny named Ijeawele who died before Amina could ever tell her how much she'd *meant* --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Three: Beginning less than a week after she'd been freed -- and dumped penniless on the street to live or die as she would: A truncated adolescence in the loving, protective, educational, healing, indulgent, sarcastic, wild, literally magical, occasionally murderous, and *every* other thing care of three older witch-sisters who told Amina flat-out, as soon as they'd gotten her home, that they had only *found* her because Ife -- the youngest if you'll recall -- had been sent a vision of Amina; the knowledge of her name, age, and location; and, finally, the knowledge that she would be -- and I'm quoting -- 'the most beautiful love of their lives'." 

"Did *they* -- I mean -- she had just been bloody *freed*!" 

"They didn't. They told her they'd wait, and that *when* she made a decision, they'd abide by it -- whatever it happened to be." 

Porthos frowns. 

Treville smiles wryly. "You're absolutely right, son -- it *was* too much. Even with that --" 

"*Especially* with that!" 

Treville inclines his head. "It shaped her -- and it absolutely shaped her responses to *me*." 

"And. And your Dad..." Porthos winces and nods. "But -- she was still ready to talk about what would happen with *me*? Even while I was a *baby*?" 

"She was ready to talk about what *might* happen with the adolescent *hypothetical* we conjured between us out of my whoring habits, her *fantasies* of my whoring habits -- and what she'd always wanted to do about them -- our *shared* fantasies of how *she* might look as a *somewhat* paler *boy* -- and I don't know how *much* experience you have with this sort of magery, son, but Ife had long since informed us that you would *be* a boy, beautiful and strong." Treville shakes his head. "That sort of talk between us... paused, once you were born." 

"You still knew, though. You knew it would start up again... someday." 

Treville inclines his head, resting his hands on his thighs. "With her, even if it didn't happen with anyone else in the pack. We were bound, after all."

Porthos flares his nostrils -- 

Lifts his nose -- 

And snorts air out of his nose. "I think -- you felt guilty about that." 

"I did, son." 

"I think you blamed *yourself* for *Mum's* deviance." 

"Even as I recognized the *ultimate* irrationality of it all, yes." 

"*Daddy* --" 

"I took too much pleasure out of encouraging her, son. I told myself... I told myself that I should've only been *soothing* my *mate* -- as opposed to *wallowing*." 

"And what *exactly* happened to doing anything and *everything* for -- or *with* -- your mate, eh? What happened to that universal *truth*?" 

"Son -- I." Treville breathes and beats his head against the headboard. Just -- twice. "The logic didn't escape me, son. I promise you," he says, and meets his perfect son's gaze. 

Porthos is frowning again. "It -- the emotions did." 

"Yes." 

"You couldn't -- you couldn't get comfortable in your own skin, anymore. Not with this. Not the way you did when you were *just* a boy madly in love with his Dad." 

Treville inclines his head. 

Porthos nods thoughtfully, studying something within himself for long moments. 

Treville -- leaves him to it, as best as he can. He *has* to. 

It's -- 

He *has* to -- 

"You don't," Porthos says, shuffling closer until he's straddling Treville's lap -- 

"Porthos --" 

"Shh. Just a minute, Daddy." 

"You shouldn't --" 

"Wait for me," Porthos says, and cups Treville's face with both hands -- 

Looks down into his *eyes* -- 

"*Please* wait for me." 

"Son -- oh, son, I always will," Treville says, and swallows.

Porthos licks his lips. "I'm your son. I'm your son in *every* way that matters, yeah?" 

"My -- you drove me mad from the *beginning* --" 

"Yeah, but wait. All right?" 

Treville sucks a breath in through his teeth -- and nods. "You're my son. By marriage, by magic, by *choice*." 

Porthos nods back. "You're my *father* in all the same ways. And we feel each other. Don't we. We can feel everything *about* each other if we put even a *little* effort into it." 

"Yes -- *yes*. I can feel -- you're so *resolved* --" 

"And you're frightened, hungry -- and so in *love*. My father. My *Daddy*." 

"*Yes* --" 

"There is nothing you want more in this world -- or *any* other -- than to make sure I have *everything* I want and need, everything which could *possibly* make me happy -- and absolutely *nothing* that would hurt me." 

"If I could -- for your *happiness* -- I would do *anything*, son. There's nothing I would not *do*." 

"It's only natural, right? It's *family* -- more than that. It's *pack*." 

Treville *grunts* -- "You know. You *know* --" 

"I do, Daddy. And *you* know... so much. So much about *everything* -- but especially about life, and all the things the world can do to *twist* it." 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut -- 

"Stay *with* me, Daddy, *please* --" 

Treville opens his *eyes* -- 

"And you're pleading with me now -- you have to know, Daddy -- no. No. I'll do this the *right* way." 

"Son...?" 

"This, Daddy: You know *all* about how the world will fuck a bloke *right* up. How it can and will take anyone -- anyone at all -- and *make* them look at their child -- or their *father* -- and see someone they need to *touch*, more than anyone *else* --" 

"I know -- I know what you're trying to *tell* me --"

"Not *enough*, Daddy. Because I don't think you've *really* put enough thought into what it was like to grow up hungry, and cold, and *aching* --" 

Treville whines *helplessly* -- 

"-- *with* Mum, who was aching *just* as much, but couldn't tell me *anything* about why until the end -- and even then? Couldn't tell me *enough*." 

"I -- you *said* --" 

"I don't think you've really thought about what that might have changed, between Mum and me, Daddy."

Treville *blinks*. "Son...?" 

"I don't think..." Porthos smiles softly. *Softly*. "She couldn't tell me... anything. Not really. But there were stories about the future. About the people I would meet *someday*, and how warm we would be together, and how we would never be *lonely*, and how much those people would *love* me." 

"I. She..." But Treville doesn't really have words after that. He can't...

But Porthos just nods as though he'd truly asked a question. "She'd hold me in the dark, Daddy. Tight and close and *strong* on our pile of blankets on the floor. I'd be surrounded by her perfect scents, all but *wrapped* in her perfect *body*, and she'd rumble her songs to me -- songs in a dozen different languages. 

"And then, as I was getting closer to sleep..." 

_"Oh, my sweet boy..."_

_Porthos does his best to snuggle closer, even though it's not *really* possible, because --_

_Maman laughs, low and breathy and hooting all at once, laughs and rolls them back and forth on the pile --_

_Porthos snuggles closer -- *always* snuggles closer -- because of *that*._

_"My *silly* sweet boy."_

_"Yes, Maman," he says, and yawns --_

_She squeezes him and hums, musical and low, and Porthos wonders if there'll be another song tonight --_

_She'd gone down to the docks for good deals on fish, and the sailors always teach her more songs --_

_But Maman's breath... hitches a little, the way it sometimes does when -- "Sweet boy, would you like a story?"_

_When she *asks* if he wants a story, as if -- "I *always* want stories, Maman!" As if the answer could ever not be *that*._

_But, at times like this, she doesn't laugh._

_She sighs a little, and pets him slowly, and firmly --_

_Squeezes him so *tightly* --_

_"Sweet boy," she says, "I will tell you a story of the *future*."_

_"Oh -- when we're older?"_

_"Yes. When -- when *we* are older," she says, and squeezes him again. "You will be *very* tall, and I will have grey hairs --"_

_"Even Yejide doesn't have *grey* hairs, Maman, and she's *very* old!"_

_"That is because Yejide spends a *significant* amount of time on the *other* side of life, sweet boy -- I. Hm. I will explain that to you later."_

_"Yes, Maman!"_

_"Good boy," she says, and pets him more --_

_And more --_

_She makes a soft, *low* sound..._

_"Maman...?"_

_"You will be *tall*, sweet boy, and you will have broad shoulders, and *muscles* --"_

_"Oh! All *over*?"_

_"Oh, *yes*. Because you are a good, strong, and hard-*working* boy, and."_

_"Mm? What is it, Maman?"_

_"And... there is a good, strong, hard-working *man* we will meet, together, who will love that about you."_

_"He -- he'll be our friend, Maman?"_

_"He will be our *good* friend for *all* of our days -- and so will all of *his* friends."_

_"And they're good people? Smart and nice?"_

_"Oh, yes! We will meet the *best* people, sweet boy. People who will teach us *new* things. People who will *help* us be the best people *we* can be, even as we help *them*."_

_Porthos wriggles happily. "What -- what will they *look* --"_

_"Shh, sweet boy. *That* is not the most. The most *important* part of the tale."_

_Porthos frowns. "No? Why not?"_

_"Because... we have to talk about *love*. Our friends will *be* our friends, sweet boy -- but they will love us so. So *much*," she says, and her voice... cracks._

_"Maman? Are you --"_

_She takes a shuddering breath -- and she's petting Porthos even more firmly in between *clutches* -- "They will love us, sweet boy, and especially *you*. You must know this. You must understand this, and -- be ready."_

_Porthos wriggles and shivers -- "H-how? Maman, how --"_

_"They will love you with their good *words*, as I do. They will love you with their good *scents*, as I do --"_

_"Yes, Maman --"_

_"And they will love you with their *bodies*, my sweet boy. They will touch you and touch you --" She whines -- and *stops* petting him. And pulls him back into their usual snuggle, because._

_Because maybe Porthos isn't ready *now*? He'd liked the petting..._

_But then Maman laughs again, low and rumbling and rueful, and everything is right._

_Porthos pushes close._

_"My sweet, sweet boy."_

_"Yours, Maman. *Always*."_

_"You will be theirs, too, sweet boy. In. In the future..."_

_Porthos shivers. "And you'll be, too?"_

_"... yes, sweet boy. We'll find them all together -- one by *one* if we must."_

_"And you'll show me? How to be ready?"_

_"I wish..."_

_"Maman?"_

_She sighs, then, and laughs so *quietly*. "I am only dreaming, sweet boy, of the good friends we will meet, and all the ways they could *help* us."_

_"Help us... get ready?"_

_*This* laugh is louder, and more right. "Among other things, sweet boy. Among many other things," she says, and kisses the top of Porthos's head, mushing down his curls with her face to do it._

_Porthos giggles and makes her mush harder --_

_She snorts into his hair and *tickles* him --_

_And Porthos knows that this will be one of the nights when Maman doesn't make him sleep for -- a while._

When Porthos tugs them -- a little jerkily, but *well* -- out of the memory, Treville realizes that he's shuddering desperately and hard as stone. 

Gulping *air* -- 

He can still feel his Amina-love's *hands* -- 

*Moving* on -- 

Porthos. *Not* him. And that...

Treville winces and gives himself a *shake* -- and looks back up into Porthos's eyes. 

Porthos is still straddling him, still cupping Treville's face -- and now he's got his eyebrows up. 

"There's a lot to be said about that memory, son," Treville says, and licks his lips. 

"You know... when I was young? That memory -- *all* of those memories, because there were more than a few nights like that -- just made me even more determined than I already *was* to make it work with Flea, Charon, and all the others." 

Treville winces and nods. "Of course they did."

"Even after she told that tale at the end..." Porthos shakes his head. "It never *once* occurred to me that she wanted me to go make love with her friends and, oh, yeah, *my true father*." 

"Why *would* it, son?" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"Serious question. How *much* context did you have for those nights, mm? Because I daresay you learned a lot about parents and guardians *abusing* their children over the years, but I could smell you then and I can smell you *now* --" 

"I never once thought of that as even -- pushing the line. Yeah, I know. You're right. But *we're* here *right this second*, Daddy. And we *both* know those nights built something *extremely* specific in me. Whether or *not* Mum *planned* it that way." 

Treville's cock *jerks* -- and Porthos is close enough now... 

"I could feel every *inch* of it, yeah, Daddy," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Are you hearing me, yet? Or do you need more?" 

"Son, I can't *hurt* you!" 

"I didn't really think about all of it until tonight -- you've put so much *together* for me, Daddy. And you're right that I have a lot *more* thinking to do --" 

"*Yes*, son --" 

"But let's think, for a minute, about how much it hurt you to do all your thinking *alone*." 

"*Fuck* --"

"Yeah, eh? And maybe it was just sodding fine to -- once you *did* have a pack around you -- do all that thinking without *touch*? To know that even though you'd found people who loved and needed and desired and *respected* you, you *still* hadn't found people who didn't *flinch* when you were *completely* honest --"

Treville -- growls. For a moment, it seems like it's the only sound he's capable of making anymore. The only *statement*. 

Porthos nods and licks his lips. "That, Daddy. *That*. Because I know this is what you want to *save* me from -- that you want to protect me more than any-bloody-thing -- but. I already love you. I already *need* you, Daddy," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "There just aren't that many *ways* for you to protect me. Not and have it *work*." 

Treville -- breathes. 

Breathes and *thinks*, because, in this moment --

There's nothing left in him of the crushing, desperate, *unmanning* fear that had been creeping steadily up round his heart, even as his son grew closer to him, grew more comfortable *with* him. 

Even as it became clear that what they have, between them...

In *this* moment, with Porthos gazing down into Treville's eyes so *hopefully*, there is nothing but the shake in Treville's hands and the need in his soul and the *ache* in his drooling *cock*. 

And, of course --

Porthos nods once. "We're who we are, Daddy -- and we *always* will be, at the heart. Neither of us have *any* sodding business being alone in *any* sodding *way*." 

Of course, the *undeniable* truth is that Porthos is *his* son -- and no one else's. He reaches up and tugs Porthos's hands away from his face -- 

"Don't push me *away* --" 

"Shh," Treville says, raising an eyebrow and gently -- and firmly -- urging Porthos to lock his wrists behind his back. 

"Oh." 

Treville flares his nostrils -- nods. "Ask your questions, son." 

Porthos *flexes* his wrists in Treville's hands -- 

Licks his lips -- 

"Are you saying *yes*... or are you conceding with *honour*?" 

Treville hums. "I will admit *freely* and *happily* to the fact that you *could* have worn me down to the point of surrender with just a bit more focused effort --" 

"But that's not what I *did*?" 

"No, son. Your pointed use of logic -- with, of course, the timely immersive aids to cognition --" 

Porthos *chokes* on laugh --

"-- truly did take a *sledgehammer* to my towering walls of fear, misery, guilt, and self-doubt." 

"But that sort of thing *never* works on other people!" 

"Does it work on you?" 

"Well... yeah?" 

Treville raises an eyebrow *good* and slowly. 

"You *arse*. You said logic *didn't* work on you!"

"For *some* things, son. Most of them? Involve people trying to tell me that I'm worth more than I think I am --" 

"Bloody stop that!" 

Treville hums and smiles. "Getting my beautiful son back into my life -- and managing to make him think *exceedingly* well of me in the bargain -- is helping with that *immensely*." 

"I -- oh." 

Treville inclines his head. "So." 

Porthos pants. "I uh..." 

"Need some time...? We can --" 

"Daddy, you *have* to know I'm *terrified* about what will happen with you if I leave your cock alone for five sodding *minutes*." 

Treville *coughs*. "Just the same, son -- you're *not* ready to jump back into the saddle right this *second*. We can take things a little slowly. Perhaps... speak a little more about what we *want*?" 

"I..." Porthos frowns *exactly* like a man forced to deal with the world's shiftiest horse trader, but staunchly determined to get out of things with his purse intact. 

"Son, I *promise* that I will not stop wanting you to *touch my cock*." 

Porthos frowns *direfully*. *At* him. 

"I promise to *encourage* you to touch my cock?" 

"Right, that's better," Porthos says. 

"*Excellent*. Let's --" 

"Let's finally get *naked*, Daddy. You're much less likely to make a break for it if that dog-cock of yours is flopping about in the breeze."

"Actually, that reminds me of a tale --" 

"For fuck's *sake*."


	10. The oil budget for the de Tréville properties is exactly what you think it is, times infinity.

Treville takes a deep drink of the wine Porthos had brought in from the sitting room, hums quietly, and surveys his gloriously naked -- and dismayed -- son. 

At the moment, said son is -- gently -- cupping his cock and staring fixedly at it over by one of the sconces -- 

Said cock is rather different in appearance -- and *somewhat* different in size -- than what it had been earlier today. 

"*Daddy*." 

Treville takes another drink. "I take it that you didn't expect this?" 

Porthos looks at him, beautiful face pulled into a tragedy-mask. 

"Son." 

"Daddy, you are not allowed to use that tone with a man -- any sodding man! -- who's just discovered that his dearly beloved cock has done a bloody runner!" 

Treville licks his lips -- and opens his mouth -- 

"Bloody *no*." 

"Technically --" 

"Sodding *no*!"

"*Technically*, son? You have an even *bigger* cock than you used to have --" 

"Daddy --" 

"You also have a massive, hot, and *throbbing* knot --" 

"You --" 

"Which you can and *should* use to plug the cunts, arses, and *mouths* of every likely individual who strikes your *fancy* --" 

"Um." 

"Plug them *tight*, son. Hold them to you. *Tie* them like bitches on *heat* --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"*Force* them to take your hungry *force*. Your hungry *rut* --" 

"Fuck fuck fuck --" 

"Until you're both *howling* for it, son. Until you're howling and shoving and gripping and biting and *taking* -- and *filling* the bitch in question with every last *drop* of your spend. They'll have earned it by then, you see," Treville says, and takes another drink. 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos stares down at his -- *very* hard -- cock. 

Treville takes another drink -- 

"Right, well, I feel better. Thanks, Daddy." 

"Anytime, son. Anytime." 

Porthos joins him on the bed with his own glass of wine, and they sit together against the headboard, sipping and -- feeling each other. 

Skin to skin. 

Scents to *scents*. 

Treville rumbles. 

Porthos rumbles right back.

Treville grins. "Given any thought to what you'd like, son...?" 

"Well, I'm definitely thinking about fucking --" 

"And knotting?" 

"And *knotting* every last person who's bloody *smiled* at me this past week --" 

Treville snickers hard -- 

"Which is *again* raising questions about you and your *chambermaids* --" 

"Son. Do you honestly think they'd act like *that* around me if I showed my *truly* deviant side around them?" 

"Bloody *yes*." 

Treville coughs -- "Son --" 

"*Yes*, Daddy, because you're sodding *attractive*, and *desirable*, and? *Honourable*." 

Treville licks his lips. 

Porthos scowls at him. 

Treville grins. "Feeling a mite belligerent, are we?" 

"Stop sounding so bloody *happy* about that!" 

Treville laughs and sets his wine down, then turns back to cup Porthos's face -- 

Urge him to face him -- 

"My son..." 

Porthos takes a quick breath. "Or I could stop yelling at you. We could try that, too." 

Treville grins. "You..." He shakes his head. 

"Mm? What is it, Daddy?" 

"You grew up perfect, son. That's all," Treville says, leaning in -- 

And Porthos meets him halfway and *licks* into Treville's mouth -- 

Croons when Treville growls -- 

*Opens* when Treville slips his tongue *deep*, and they're nodding together, pushing closer -- 

Porthos sets his own wine down and reaches up to cup Treville's face, tugs him into a more *aggressive* kiss -- 

Treville hums. Anything you'd like, son... 

(Oh fuck --) 

Anything for my *boy*, Treville says, pushing one hand into those curls and *gripping* before licking in -- 

In -- 

*In*, and then he's just fucking Porthos's mouth with his tongue, his long and longer and *longer* tongue, and Porthos is gurgling for it -- 

Panting through his nose and *sucking* -- 

Arching up into it and reaching for Treville's free hand -- 

Dragging that hand down and down his chest -- 

Treville smiles into a kiss and forces a detour to one of those hard, *dark* nipples -- 

Porthos gasps into his mouth -- 

Treville pulls his tongue back -- 

*Licks* Porthos's mouth -- 

And pinches *firmly*. "Tell me more, mm? Tell me all about it..." 

"Uhh... fuck, Daddy. I am *infinitely* too sensitive for you to do too much of *that*." 

Treville growls -- and eases off.

"Should I apologize?" 

"For making me *extremely* aroused?" Treville pooches up his expression and wags his head a bit -- 

Porthos snorts. "Arse. But -- you like it hard. I *know* you do." 

"You *also* know that I will be *heartbroken* if I don't make you spend until you're drooling, weeping, and at least a little bit stupider than you were this morning." 

Porthos snickers. "Bloody *fine*. *Treat* me right. See if I care." 

Treville grins -- and rubs at that nipple with his thumb-callus just a little gently. 

"Oh." 

"Yes, son?" 

"Uhh... more. Definitely more of that." 

Treville rumbles and follows orders, increasing the pressure and using the rougher edge of the callus in question -- 

Porthos hisses between his teeth -- 

Treville *pauses* -- 

"No -- fuck, *more*, Daddy, please -- *mm* --" 

Treville *drives* Porthos back against the headboard with this kiss, fills Porthos's mouth with his tongue, *fucks* him with it even as he works *both* nipples with his calluses -- 

Porthos pants -- 

*Whines* -- 

*Tries* to suck -- but it doesn't take long before he's whimpering and lapping at Treville's tongue, his lips, his *beard* -- 

"Oh, son..." 

"P-please -- *fuck* -- I didn't expect..." 

"It's hitting you just a little harder than you thought it would. Isn't it," Treville says, and pinches *gently*. 

"Nnh -- it -- it's *faster*. I -- fuck, 'm so *hard* --" 

Treville growls -- and licks and licks Porthos mouth, his sweaty throat, his ears -- 

"Please -- *please*, Daddy -- *hnh* --" 

"Just take it, son," Treville says, and rubs hard circles over and *over* those stiff little nipples -- 

"Fuck --" 

"Take it... and understand that the dog in you has started making *demands*." And Treville raises an eyebrow -- 

Porthos's jaw *drops* -- but his *musk* rises and rises and -- 

"Oh, son... you know *exactly* what I mean. Don't you." 

"I -- I -- he's *telling* me..." 

"*What* is he telling you, mm?" And Treville *drags* his calluses over those nipples before going back to circling them -- "What is he telling you about *me*." 

"Have to. Have to bare my throat, Daddy. My -- belly. Have to --" Porthos moans, not croons. 

"More, son. *More*." 

Porthos laughs, and his gaze is clear and *open*. "Daddy, I've wanted to lift my *arse* for you since the first time I heard you *laugh*."

Treville *blinks* -- "My -- my *laugh*?" 

Porthos smiles... but his eyes are a little serious. "Anyone can be hard, Daddy -- though I will admit that you're *especially* attractive about it." 

"I --" 

"*Not* everyone can be hard and then turn around and show themselves to be... real. Open. *Good*. You always..." Porthos pants, just a little, and covers Treville's hands before pushing them *down*. 

Treville growls and *grips* Porthos by the cock and by the tight, heavy bollocks -- 

Porthos pants more heavily -- 

"Tell me, son. Go on." 

"You always had your *soul* in your eyes, Daddy. You always -- fuck, I've just wanted you to *touch* me --" 

"Here," Treville says, and starts tossing his beautiful boy off, gentle and fast, high along his length and *using* all that slick to keep things sweet, sweet the way he *knows* Porthos likes -- 

And Porthos bucks *immediately*, strains and whines again -- 

*Again* -- 

"Oh, son... should I make you spend this way *before* I open you for my cock?" 

*That* gets him a croon -- 

A slow, full-bodied *writhe* -- 

Porthos is leaking so fast, so *much* -- 

"You're making my *mouth* water, son..." 

Porthos pants and croons more -- 

Shivers and *arches* -- 

"Son... mm. This," Treville says, stroking down to Porthos's knot and squeezing *carefully* -- 

Porthos barks *twice*, eyes flying open wide even as his cock spits slick all over both of them. 

"Perfect, son. *Perfect* --" 

"D-*Daddy* --" 

"*Yours*," Treville says, and goes back to stroking. "And I'll *always* be yours, son --" 

"I -- I --" 

"I'll always be here for you, son," Treville says, gathering up more of the copious slick and making his stroke sleeker, *dirtier*.

"Ngh -- *please*!"

"*Right* here, son. For anything you need. Anything you *want*, mm?" And Treville starts to *pump* those bollocks, not too hard, but rhythmic and just a little *relentless* --

"Daddy -- I --" 

Treville squeezes with both hands -- 

And Porthos gasps and howls, just like that, howls right in Treville's *face* -- 

"Good *boy*," Treville says, stroking faster and *just* a little harder -- 

*Working* those bollocks -- 

Stroking over that knot and not *quite* squeezing -- 

Porthos *chokes* on a gasp -- 

Bucks -- 

And seems caught between writhing helplessly and *pounding* Treville's fist, *giving* himself -- 

Treville growls more. "*Come* on, son --" 

"I --" 

"The sooner you spend? The sooner *I* can have your beautiful arse --" 

"Don't -- don't *wait* --" 

"Shh. I won't tease you, son. I won't -- mm." Treville strokes back down to that knot and squeezes with both hands again -- 

Porthos *screams* a howl -- 

"That's *right*, son -- and I won't *ever* tease my beautiful boy... unless you *ask* for it," Treville says, pumping those bollocks *and* that knot -- 

"Ah -- *ahn* --" 

"Will you give it to me, son? Will you give me your spend? Will --" 

But Porthos's scents -- his *musk* -- rise and rise and *twine* through the air with Treville's own, sweeten and deepen and -- 

"Oh, *son*," Treville says, squeezing those bollocks just a little viciously even as he *caresses* that knot with every callus he has -- 

"Daddy -- I --" And this howl is sweet, so *sweet* -- 

So hungry and *sweet* as Porthos arches up into Treville's working hands, as Porthos's eyes roll back in his head, as Porthos spurts all over Treville's chest and belly -- 

Soaks his *fur* -- 

Treville's tongue lengthens without his *permission* -- but there's no reason whatsoever not to use it. He leans in, aiming Porthos's still-spurting cock at their chins -- 

Shuddering *needily* for the *smack* of hot spend on his throat -- 

Porthos gasps -- 

Chokes -- 

Howls *again* even as *he* shudders -- 

And Treville licks him, licks them *both* -- 

Licks them clean and licks them *dirty* even as he slows his strokes down, *eases* them -- 

Kisses between licks -- 

Between nasty-delicious little *slurps* -- 

Porthos is crooning again -- 

Whimpering and -- "Daddy -- *Daddy* -- *mmph* --" 

It's necessary to lick Porthos's own spend into his mouth, to *feed* it to him, tongue to tongue and need to *need* -- 

Porthos shivers for him and nods, sucks -- and then suckles slow and *wet*, just like he means to stay there for a while. 

(Well, Daddy, there's all this nice spend right here...) 

So there is, son. Back in the land of the coherent, are we?

(*Look*, you arse --) 

Treville laughs into his perfect son's mouth -- 

And Porthos pulls back with a grin, licking then both. "I *would* have bitten you for that, but the dog in me..." 

"Has opinions about that, son?" 

"That he does, Daddy. Most of them boil down to me needing proper education about when and why and *how* certain things are appropriate, and when and why and how they're bloody *not*. And then he glares at me a bit," Porthos says, and grins more broadly before jerking his chin at Treville. "Did you like that, Daddy? Being... gentle with me?" 

Treville cock *jerks* -- 

Porthos laughs hard. "That's right, Daddy, find *all* the ways to make me feel *wanted*," he says and drags two fingers through the mess on Treville's belly. "Where did all this *come* from anyway?" 

"You're a *shifter* now, son --" 

"Right, and I thought for a while in your office today that maybe you just hadn't spent for a *decade* --" 

Treville snorts -- 

"But *come* on!" 

"As we had started to discuss, the All-Mother wants -- and *expects* -- *all* of Her children to be ready, willing, and *able* to produce *more* children for Her at a moment's *notice*, son," Treville says, raising his eyebrows and lifting Porthos's sticky fingers to his own lips for as sloppy a kiss as he can manage. 

"Uhh... what?" 

Treville snorts. "Son." 

Porthos grins. "I bloody love what a *nasty* kisser you are, Daddy --" 

Treville licks a *wet* path *between* Porthos's fingers -- 

"And you can do that all the bloody time --" 

Treville hums and pulls back -- 

"Aww --" 

"What *else* can I do, mm?" 

Porthos licks his lips --

Licks his lips *at* Treville's cock -- 

Which jerks obligingly -- 

"Is that what you wanted again, son...?" 

"All the bloody *time* -- but no," Porthos says, looking up and smiling *shyly*. 

Treville strokes his cheek with the back of one hand and twines the fingers of his other hand with Porthos's. "Tell me, please." 

"I uh. I've a fantasy..." And Porthos blushes so... 

Treville rumbles and pets his son, leans in, nuzzles -- 

"Fuck, Daddy..." 

"I want everything, son. Everything that's *yours*." 

Porthos's breath hitches -- 

He licks and licks and *licks* Treville's mouth -- 

Treville pushes him back. Gently. 

"Mm? I --" 

"Shh. You can have what you want, son. Every wish. Every fantasy. Every *whim*," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos shivers. "I -- fuck. Just. I want you to fuck me hard, Daddy. I want -- I mean, of bloody *course* I do -- oh --" 

Treville licks the right corner of Porthos's mouth, and then the left. "Am I hard on you while I'm preparing you, son?" 

"N-no. I mean -- I don't usually..." Porthos shivers again and leans in for another kiss, another *hungry* kiss -- 

Treville makes it a good one, wiping his free hand *mostly* clean on the sheets and shoving it back into those curls -- 

Gripping Porthos and tilting his head just *so* -- 

*Having* his mouth and making it his own, *all* his own, because he needs Porthos to *remember* this kiss -- 

(I *will*, Daddy --) 

He needs Porthos to remember this kiss *every* time someone slips their tongue -- deep. 

And Porthos is gurgling low in his throat, dragging their joined hands to Treville's cock, urging Treville to stroke -- (Show me *how*, Daddy --) 

Treville pulls back. "Not yet," he says, but makes Porthos squeeze him *hard* just the same -- 

"Oh, Daddy... like that?" 

Treville closes his eyes for a moment -- and grins. "Among other ways," he says, and pushes Porthos's hand away -- 

"Aww --" 

\-- and then *grips* Porthos's strong wrists and pushes them behind his back. And holds them *right* there. 

"Uh -- that. That's a different fantasy," Porthos says, and laughs a little breathlessly. 

"Mm. Then tell me more of the first. You were saying something about how I *prepare* you." 

Porthos flexes his wrists -- 

Shifts restlessly --

"Nnh -- I just -- we can do anything -- I can't think --" 

Treville keeps his hands right where they are -- and squeezes firmly.

"... fuck," Porthos says, and laughs more, hungry and pleased. "You know *exactly* how much sense that made to *every* part of me." 

"That I do, son," Treville says. "My boy needs... just a bit of settling," he says, kneeling up into a *loom* over his frankly magnificent son -- 

"Oh." 

\-- and growling low. Just a little. "My boy needs help staying... focused."

Porthos shivers and bares his throat, eyes going heavy-lidded at once. "Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy." 

"Anything, son. At *any* time. Now... tell me. Tell me about *preparation*." 

"'m not dreaming about that when 'm dreaming about you having me, Daddy." 

"Mm. Not ever...?" 

"If you're using your fingers? You're making me *spend* on your fingers because I haven't *earned* your cock, yet." 

Treville blinks.

"I know. I *know*," Porthos says, smiling wryly -- 

Flexing his wrists -- 

Treville squeezes -- 

"Fuck, so *good* -- uh. I knew *exactly* how big your cock was when it was *soft*, and I knew full *well* that I'd *need* some prep before you shoved that monster up there, but... uh..." And Porthos shrugs. 

"Was it impatience, son?" 

"Yeah --"

"Or was it *desire*." 

"Oh." And Porthos blinks at him, wide-eyed and sweet. 

Treville sighs and shuffles a little bit closer -- 

Looms a little bit *more* -- 

"Daddy..." 

"I need you to think about this, son. I need you to..." Treville breathes deeply of their mingled scents and growls again -- 

Shudders -- 

Squeezes *hard* -- 

"Please --" 

"I need you to *think*, son. Because I can and *will* give you *exactly* what you ask me for -- including me using my fingers *only* to get you *good* and slick... and then using my *cock* for absolutely everything else." 

Porthos moans, hungry and deep. 

"My son. You'll feel me... well. You *won't* feel me for days," Treville says, and laughs a little helplessly. 

Porthos blinks and makes a helpless questioning noise. 

Treville sobers himself at *speed* and squeezes Porthos's wrists a little brutally -- 

"Nnh -- I'm listening! What --" 

"You'll heal, son. From *everything* I do to you. Even *faster* than your perfect mouth healed from me fucking it earlier today," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos inhales sharply -- and then looks only wondering. "I'd be able to train just as hard as I wanted tomorrow." 

"That's what you're thinking -- oh, son. *My* son. My beautiful --" Treville growls *desperately*. "Do you *want* it." 

Porthos smiles up at him. "'m. 'm so sensitive right now. You know, from being so *drunk* --"

"*Yes*, son. And you might not want --" 

"I think. I think you'll drive me right out of my head, Daddy." 

Treville pants -- 

"I think you'll make me so. So --" Porthos shakes himself and *whines* -- 

"Son --" 

"Please, Daddy. Please *give* it to me --" 

And Treville is moving -- and moving his *son*. He *puts* Porthos on his hands and knees facing the headboard -- 

He pauses and then tugs Porthos *back*, by the hips, because he knows -- 

He knows he'll be fucking his boy just that hard. 

He has to give them both *room*. 

He has to -- 

He has to *bite* a path, salty and stinging, up Porthos's broad, strong back, tasting and kissing here and there, licking and *sucking* -- 

And the part of him which *almost* can't hear Porthos's low, panted pleas under the rush and pound of blood in his ears is -- still -- *capable* of being leashed by the rest. 

This... 

This will take *control*. 

Treville has enough. 

He pulls the little pot of oil from the bedside table and smacks Porthos's arse when he turns toward the sound -- 

"*Oh* --" 

"Face front or head *down*, son. You've no other choices than that at the moment." 

"Oh, *shit*," Porthos says, and -- drops, just like that, pushing his face into the duvet and going *loose*. 

"My *son*," Treville says, and caresses Porthos -- 

Pets and strokes -- 

*Squeezes* that arse -- 

"*Yours*!" 

"There is no doubt in my *mind* that my *Amina-love* made you the best of soldiers --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"-- *long* before you walked into the *garrison*," Treville says, and gives those bollocks a squeeze -- 

"*Please*, Daddy!" 

"Please what, mm? What do you *need* before I get you *ready* for me?" 

Porthos croons and *immediately* lifts his arse -- 

Grinds his face into the *sheets* -- 

And that thick and *gorgeously* red cock is dripping *copiously* again. 

Treville licks his lips -- and hums. "Perhaps I should tell you what *I* need," Treville says, and slicks two fingers... very well indeed. 

Porthos croons a question, turning his head to the side and *not* lifting it. 

"My good boy. My *good* boy..." Treville sighs and spreads Porthos with his free hand. "And I know you're losing a little bit of the man in you again..." 

Another croon, and Porthos nods, dragging his face against the sheets. 

"You're hungry for your Daddy. Aren't you," Treville says, and strokes over Porthos's flexing hole with his slick fingers -- 

Strokes *firmly*, letting Porthos feel his calluses -- 

"Go on, son, tell me. *Any* way you can..." 

"Nn -- I -- I want --" 

"Mm...?" And Treville drags his slick fingers up and down Porthos's cleft just a *little* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I won't tease," Treville says. "Here." And he pushes both fingers *in* -- 

Porthos *barks* -- "Oh -- *oh*..." 

"As an aside," Treville says, and *twists* his fingers -- 

Porthos barks again -- 

Again -- 

Bites the *sheets* -- 

"As an *aside*, son," Treville says, and *fucks* Porthos in a twisting motion. "You should feel free to do that *just* as much as you'd like." 

Porthos croons into the sheets and clenches *hard* -- 

"Mm. That's right, son. That's right... get that out of the way. Get *all* of that out of the way," Treville says, and fucks Porthos a little faster -- 

Just a little -- 

"It *won't* be long now..." 

Porthos flexes open immediately, making a sharp and *indefinably* animal noise -- 

*Clawing* at the sheets even as his cock jerks and spasms -- 

Treville shivers. His own cock is aching. *Wanting*. It -- "I want you, son..." 

Porthos nods and nods, lifting his arse -- 

"You're -- mm. You're going to *feel* me --" 

Porthos *yips* -- 

"You're going to feel me stretching you so *wide*, son --" 

Porthos lifts his arse *higher* --

And Treville feels himself flushing right down his chest. Just -- he's growling too much. He needs control. He *needs* -- first things first. He pushes gently on the base of Porthos's spine. "Just a little lower, son. I'll put you where I need you..." 

A low and *sweet* croon -- 

Treville can feel the fur on his belly sprawling even higher -- no. 

He rolls his head on his neck. "My son. My --" Treville licks a significant portion of his face -- and *breathes*. "More oil. Just... a little more," Treville says, pushing Porthos down about another inch before moving his hand to one hip and squeezing firmly. "I'm going to pull out for a moment, son --" 

And that bark was both aggrieved and *desperate*. 

Treville grins -- and then sings a soft and soothing croon of his own, watching his boy blink rapidly in surprise -- and surprised comprehension. 

"I uh. Hunh. That... was a bit *distressingly* soothing, Daddy." 

Treville laughs and squeezes Porthos's hip before pulling out, slow and easy. "Got a bit more of the man in you back, too..." 

"Yeah..." 

"We'll do something about that very, *very* soon," Treville says, pouring the oil onto his hand directly before rubbing it around to warm it up -- 

Porthos moans -- "Oh fuck -- fuck, Daddy, I don't *want* to be much more prepared than this --" 

"You won't be. I made you a promise, mm?" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"This," Treville says, and sighs as he strokes a measure of the excess along his own cock with a growl -- 

Porthos croons -- 

"*This*... is, in part, for *me*," Treville says, spreading Porthos again and slipping in with his still-*dripping* fingers -- 

"Oh -- ohn -- *please* --" 

"We're sensitive, son." 

"I --" 

"Our cocks are *sleeker* than other men's. Some would. Mm. Some would even call them *tender*," Treville says, as he strokes the oil around and around without doing overmuch to open his son -- 

"Daddy -- fuck --" 

"Wouldn't you say so, son...?" 

Porthos shivers like a horse again -- and croons low. 

"Wouldn't you say that you'd *appreciate* a nice, smooth, *wet* ride --" 

"*Hnh* -- I -- Daddy, *please*!" 

And that -- mm. "You're ready," Treville says, as much for himself as for Porthos. 

As much for the *pounding* need at the back of his neck -- 

At the base of his spine -- 

Everywhere. *Everywhere* -- but. He's pulling out again, and wiping his hand on the linen by the bedside, and petting his crooning, shaking, *urging* son --

"Now, son. Right -- oh, son, *right* now," Treville says, and *stills* Porthos by the grip he has on his hip -- 

"D-Daddy --" 

"Shh. Here," he says, spreading his boy and pushing -- 

"Oh. You're -- that feels so --" 

"Different, I know. I --" Treville grins, and it feels *hard* on his face. "I imagine... that it's *starting* to feel familiar --" 

"Big. I -- *fuck* --" 

"Is it." Treville inhales with a shudder and *forces* himself not to *immediately* pause. "Is it too *much* --" 

"Please! I mean -- I mean don't *stop*!" 

"Oh -- oh, son, you're a *vise*, I --" And the rest of that is a growl, low and *desperate*, as Treville keeps opening his boy with his *cock*. 

Porthos shudders and groans, nodding and nodding and slick all *over* with new sweat. He -- "'s good, Daddy. 's -- I -- *fuck*." 

"You like it, son? Mm?" And now that he's nearly *all* the way in, now that he *knows* his son can take it -- he *rocks* a little -- 

"Aw fuck --" 

"What was that...?" 

"Daddy --" 

Treville rocks back and forth fast and a *little* sharp -- 

Porthos *barks* -- and clenches *tight* -- 

Treville pants and *grips* Porthos by both hips, thrusting in just a little deeper than before, belly dropping and bollocks tightening and oh -- 

Oh, *this* -- 

"Son. *Son*," he says, and squeezes those hips hard enough to make Porthos *really* feel him -- 

"Daddy, 'm listening, 'm -- please *fuck* me --"

Treville growls and *claws* Porthos's hips -- and then he's gasping as Porthos clenches again -- 

*Rocks* back against him -- 

Against his aching *knot* -- 

"Oh -- oh, *Daddy*..." 

And there's only one thought as Treville nudges Porthos's knees apart just a little bit more -- 

"Yeah --" 

As he dumps still more oil *around* where they're joined -- 

"Oh -- *fuck* --" 

Rubs it in and in -- "I'm fucking you *wide* open, son --" 

"You were already *doing* that --"

"More, son. So much --" Treville growls and gives himself *permission*, rolling his hips in the old, familiar rhythm -- 

Slower, though. Just a little -- 

Just a little *careful* of his shaking, hungry, *sensitive* son -- 

"Ah -- ah, *fuck*," Porthos says, and he's beating his fist against the sheets -- and doing his best to roll *his* hips back into Treville's thrusts -- 

He -- 

Treville growls and makes it just a little harder, just a little -- 

Porthos clenches and *shouts*, shaking like a leaf as he beats at the bed harder --

"You can take it, son..." 

"Yeah -- *yeah* --" 

"Can you feel it? Mm?" And Treville *strokes* Porthos's hips, reaches around to cup and pet and *cherish* his dripping cock -- 

"I -- I -- I feel you!" 

"Can you feel how much I *love* this, son." 

"Fuck --" 

"Every *deep* stroke into your hot, tight, *beautiful* arse --" 

Porthos barks again and clenches *tight* -- 

"*Open*," Treville says, and fucks his boy faster, *faster* -- 

Porthos barks twice -- and then *howls* as his body flexes open wide, flexes open *right* -- 

"Good *boy*," Treville says, and goes back to caressing his boy's cock. "You're so beautiful. You're so -- mm. You're what I *want*, son." 

"*Please* -- I --" 

"I'll give you *everything*, son..." 

"*Please*!" 

"*All* of me," Treville says, and fucks Porthos *harder*, keeping his strokes long, keeping his own lead *tight* -- 

And now Porthos is barking just a little for every thrust, gripping the sheets in both powerful fists -- 

Leaking all over Treville's *hand* -- 

And the scents couldn't be more perfect -- 

And the *ache* couldn't be more *sweet* as Treville's knot *smacks* against Porthos's stretching hole with every -- 

Oh, every -- 

And Treville knows what will make it *better*.

He *covers* his boy, feeling every animal in *both* of them *surge* for it -- 

*Leap* for it as Treville wraps one arm round Porthos's chest and *grips* even as he starts to *work* Porthos's slick-hot and *jerking* cock with the other hand. Porthos is yipping breathlessly, yipping into the *sheets* -- 

He's *biting* the sheets -- and that's the best *possible* idea. "You're *mine*," Treville says, and *takes* the back of Porthos's neck in a bite that has the dog in him singing -- 

That has the dog he *is* growling, crooning, lapping, *slurping* -- 

Porthos tastes so perfect, feels so perfect on his *tongue*, so *right*, and he's shoving in harder, *faster* -- 

His thrusts are getting *shorter* -- 

Porthos doesn't know what that *means*, yet -- 

(I -- I know --) 

*Son* -- 

(Please, Daddy, *do* it!) 

*Fuck* -- Treville *sucks* a kiss to the blood-smeared -- but *healed* -- back of Porthos's neck -- 

"Nnh --" 

\-- and pumps Porthos's *knot* -- 

Porthos clenches and *yelps* -- 

Treville growls and shoves *in* -- in and *in* -- 

(D-*Daddy* --) 

Treville pumps that knot *again* -- and then light takes his vision, takes absolutely *all* of his vision, as Porthos howls low and desperate and breathless -- 

As Porthos shudders and clenches *violently* -- 

As Porthos spurts all over Treville's *hand* -- and shares, clumsy and heartfelt, *exactly* what it feels like to get fucked open by one's father. 

Treville can't *see* --

Treville can't see for a while, really, and he doesn't think he can be blamed for that.

He's aware of Porthos crooning -- out there somewhere. 

He's aware of Porthos groaning -- and laughing -- 

*Wheezing* laughter -- "Are you all *right* up there, Daddy?" 

"I... one moment, son," Treville says, blinking away all the stars and colours in *Porthos's* vision -- 

Porthos snickers more -- "Yeah, I'll just wait here --" 

"No, you won't," Treville says, kneeling *up* -- 

"What -- *fuck* --" 

"I *already* slicked my *knot*, son --" 

"Oh -- *shit* --" 

"And now? You're good and *loose*," Treville says, rubbing encouragingly at the base of Porthos's spine -- 

"I -- I -- uh."

"I know, son. But your *body* understands. Look how perfectly you just lifted your arse for me, mm?" 

"Oh... yeah," Porthos says, resting his cheek on the sheet and licking his lips. "Now that you mention it, Daddy, there *is* a *little* something missing from this soiree." 

Treville laughs and sighs -- but not much. His knot aches and his mind is *hot* and -- his heart hurts. 

Porthos blinks. "Daddy?" 

"Just this, son," Treville says, and strokes his son's hips -- 

His back -- 

"Just you. Here, with me, at last... I will never not be brought to my *knees* with gratitude." 

Porthos closes his eyes -- and smiles. "'s good, that. I'll need some company down here, after all." 

Treville hums and reaches around to give those bollocks a *testing* squeeze... 

"Oh -- uh." 

"No?" 

"That. That'll work better *after* you're fucking me again, Daddy." 

Treville considers... 

Licks his lips...

That. 

Porthos snorts. "*Yes*, Daddy?" 

"Son, I need you to be prepared for the sheer *amount* of time you're going to spend on my cock --" 

"And knot?" 

"*Oh*, yes, and it's *past* time to get started," Treville says, and starts to rock his way in --

"Oh --" 

And *in*, and this time he doesn't *entirely* stop when his knot smacks against that hole -- 

"Don't stop, *please* don't stop --" 

"Shh, son. We *both* need me to keep my control for just... a little longer," Treville says, and *grips* the back of Porthos's neck -- 

"*Yes*, Daddy -- *fuck* --" 

"There's my good boy," Treville says, and -- *in* -- 

Porthos tries to take him -- 

Tries to *shove* back -- 

"Smoother. Smoother than that, son," Treville says, and licks sweat out of his moustache, rocks *in* -- 

And Porthos rolls his hips to meet him, just like -- 

Just so *sweet*, and now they've found the rhythm, now they *have* it -- 

They're *giving* it to each other, panting and sweating for each other, making the bed creak *softly* for the moment -- 

Oh, just for the *moment* -- 

And the frontal curve of Treville's knot *starts* to slip in, finally starts -- 

If he'd *stretched* Porthos, it would already *be* in, but this --

This sweet *tease* -- 

The sight of Porthos's mouth falling open for the stretch of it it, for the *push* -- 

"You'll take it *all*, son," Treville says -- *grits*, and just -- "Now keep -- keep coming to *meet* me." 

And Porthos nods, takes shuddering breaths, deep and *gulping* breaths as he tries to calm himself down, tries to keep himself open. 

His cock is jerking again, leaking -- 

Treville can feel his own cock drooling *right* up Porthos's sweet arse, and he wants to fill, needs to *fill* -- but not *yet*. 

Slow. 

Slow and *steady*, because this day has *taught* him about his son, taught him -- so many *beautiful* things. 

And right now, they *both* know that Porthos wants to feel every *hairsbreadth*. Every -- 

Every little -- 

Treville *pushes* -- 

Porthos gasps -- 

Clenches and *quivers* around... most of Treville's knot. Most -- 

He's whining, clenching and flexing and clenching again -- 

Shaking so -- 

But that beautiful cock had just *spit* slick *twice* -- 

And every single one of the dogs in this room is *aching* for *more*. It -- 

If Porthos were *stretched*, Treville would *pause*. Give -- give his boy a moment to *breathe*. But... 

Treville *claws* his way down Porthos's sides -- 

Porthos gasps and *howls* -- 

"Don't *stop*, son. *Take* me!" 

"D-daddy --" 

"Give me your *arse*!" 

Porthos throws his head back and *shouts* a howl -- and starts to *work* his arse back on Treville's knot, back and back and -- 

Fuck, so fast, so *hard* -- 

*Treville* whines -- 

Claws Porthos *again* -- 

Porthos *barks* and *slams* himself back -- 

And Treville has to grip his boy's *hips*, *steady* him -- 

Steady him -- *not* slow him down. 

Not slow him down at all, because Treville is panting now, whuffing under his breath as he swivels his hips for it, pushes in, pushes *in* -- 

Porthos *yelps* and rocks for it, *gives* for it -- 

Oh -- 

"*Now*, son," Treville says, and gives his boy the rest of it, gives -- and normally he'd do it in one *hard* slam, but it's better slow, oh, it's so much *better* with them both shaking for it, with that needy little hole *quivering* for it, with his boy *yelping* for it over and over -- 

And Treville is crooning and pushing and pushing and -- *there*, right -- 

Right *there*, buried deep where he belongs, where he's *always* belonged, and for a stinging-sweet and *bright* moment Treville can feel it all burn away. Every part of him which would deny this. 

Every part of him which would deny *himself* -- and the *truth* of who he's always been. 

And who he's always been to his beautiful, beautiful son. 

"My son. *Mine*," he says, and he's sheathed in sweat, sleek with it, *hungry*, and his boy is shaking so hard, so -- 

"Fuck -- I --" And Porthos croons so low, so needy, so -- 

"I know, I -- *now*," Treville says, and covers his boy again, covers and licks him when he whines, licks to soothe, to promise, to *love* -- 

"Daddy -- Daddy, please, please --" 

"*Yes*." And it's the easiest thing in the world to bite again, to bite *deeper* this time, to *hold* his son with his teeth and his arms and his *knot* -- 

"HNH -- oh -- oh *yeah* --" 

To squeeze the *breath* out of him -- 

"*Fuck* -- nngh --" 

And show his boy the *real* fuck, the real force, the real *rut*, animal and fast and *rude* -- 

Porthos's whine is breathless and almost *small*, so -- 

*So* -- 

And it makes Treville want to wrap himself round his son in the dark, warm in the *dark*, and it makes Treville *need* to fuck him *harder*, give him everything, show him *everything* -- 

Show his son who he really *is*, with every layer peeled back and every lead *unhooked*. 

Here, son -- 

Oh -- oh, right *here* -- 

(Daddy...) 

"I -- I --" But the rest of that is helpless growls, snarling -- not even *barks* --

It -- 

Oh, son, I need you to *know* me!

And Porthos is crooning again, dragging his head against the sheets in slow, hungry nods -- 

*Gripping* at the sheets -- 

(I'll always look for you, Daddy...) 

Son -- 

(I'll always *learn* from you --) 

*Fuck* -- 

(I'll -- oh, Daddy, I'll always give you my *best*,) Porthos says, and Treville is snarling again -- 

Tossing his head with the need to bite too hard, take too much, make his boy see, make his boy see that he was always right, always perfect, always the one who was *needed* --

So -- 

So *badly* -- 

(I love you, too, Daddy,) Porthos says, and there's a loose, lazy, *happy* smile on Porthos's face -- 

Beautiful smile -- 

*Perfect* smile -- 

But Treville can't *see* it anymore, because he's biting Porthos, growling into his throat and lapping, binding, *taking* -- 

He has to take, has to have, has to build a *forever* with his *son* now that -- 

Now that he *can* -- 

(Yeah, Daddy, *forever*. I -- I'll never leave --) 

And even in a life with a goddess, Treville knows that's the only blessing he'll ever need, the only blessing he'll always *work* to *earn* -- 

He has to always -- 

He has to have his *son* -- and he has to pleasure him, too. 

He breaks the bite and licks a slick-sloppy path to Porthos's ear -- 

(Mm -- oh --)

\-- and moves one hand to Porthos's cock and drags the fingers of the other to his stiff little nipple -- 

Porthos whimpers like a *pup* -- 

Treville's cock flexes and *spasms* -- 

(Fuck, Daddy, so *dirty* --) 

Treville growls in Porthos's *ear* -- 

Porthos gasps as his *own* cock *jerks* -- 

Yours, son, Treville says -- *works* into his boy's *soul* -- 

(Oh, Daddy --) 

*All* yours. Every... mm. Every *filthy* part of me, Treville says, and ruts faster, *faster* -- 

"Nnh -- *hnh* -- hnh hnh --*hnh* --" 

Good *boy*... try this on, Treville says, and *rolls* Porthos's nipple between his fingertips -- 

Porthos *coughs* out a cry -- 

Treville *works* Porthos's nipple between his *calluses* -- 

And Porthos shouts cry after *cry* --

More, son. More for *us*, Treville says, and aloud he's whuffing out growls with every breath, every *rut* -- 

He's all but *bleeding* on his own edge, but there are *benefits* to no longer being even *close* to the fair side of forty-five, and if it feels, right now, like he's borrowing control from the spheres themselves so he can hold *on*...

Well, hadn't he done just that with his Amina-love when she'd been big with Porthos? 

Porthos *sobs* a cry, cock jerking and *jerking* -- 

*Yes*, son, and she -- 

She'd needed me to take my *time*, Treville says, and *strokes* Porthos's cock, strokes it smoothly, sweetly -- 

Porthos goes *rigid* -- 

She'd needed me to -- to *ease* her -- 

(*Fuck* --) And Porthos is crooning desperately, *breathlessly* as he spurts all over the sheets, as he spends and spends and -- 

The *scents* of you -- oh, *son* -- 

(Daddy, I -- I can't *stop* --) 

*Never* stop, Treville says, and *drops* his hand to Porthos's knot, pumping and pumping -- 

Porthos's scream is a *whistle* as he all but *sprays* the bed with spend -- and clenches hard enough to -- 

To -- 

But Treville's knot is swelling more, swelling hot and hard and *massive* -- 

He can't -- 

His thrusts are even *shorter*, painful and so sweet, so -- 

So bloody *perfect*, and he's whining and snarling, whining and *snapping* at the air -- 

"Oh, *Daddy*..." 

In -- 

"Yeah -- do it, just -- please *do* it --" 

In and -- in-in-*in* --

"Oh -- oh, it's even *bigger* -- I --" Porthos whines *with* him -- 

His son is *with* -- 

"I'll *always* stay with you, Daddy -- *fuck* --" 

And Treville has his son by the hips, has him steady, *still*, *perfect* for his rut as he takes and takes and *takes* -- 

"How's this, then?" 

"Porthos --" 

But then Porthos is clenching fast, clenching hard, *rhythmically* -- 

Treville *chokes* on a gasp -- 

Treville yips and yips and *howls*, howls his way through what feels like an endless rut, hot and wild, hot and *needy*, and it feels like he's spending through a hole that isn't technically *there* -- 

He howls *again*, high and sharp -- 

It *hurts* -- 

He *pumps* spend up his son's beautiful *arse* -- 

It -- there are *tears* on his cheeks for so many *reasons* -- 

He wouldn't give this up for -- for *anything* -- 

"Oh, Daddy, *yes*," Porthos says, reaching back and *gripping* Treville's arse -- 

Treville *bucks* -- 

*Yelps* as he spurts *again* -- 

*Again* -- 

"So uh. You plan to be at that for a while, then?" 

Treville *coughs* a laugh -- and *yelps* again when his cock spasms... dryly. 

"No?" 

"Maybe," Treville says, and pants -- 

And wraps his arms around Porthos more *comfortably* -- 

And kisses and licks his beautiful boy all over his throat and back. 

"You can do that all *night* as far as I'm concerned, Daddy." 

"Mm. Can I?" And Treville does nothing whatsoever to keep the *weight* out of that question. 

Porthos shivers -- and pushes up against Treville. 

He -- 

(Hold me tighter, Daddy.) 

Treville growls and does just that -- *and* rolls them *carefully* onto their sides -- 

"Oh -- fuck, that's -- that's not bloody *ideal* --" 

"You'll get *used* to it, son --" 

"A giant *fist* in my *arse*? Wait." 

"Mm?" And Treville goes back to licking his son assiduously -- 

"Right, well, I *want* to get used to your *knot* in my arse, in that way where I definitely want it to drive me this out of my tree *every* time, and that way where it happens exceedingly *often*."

"We're agreed on this entirely, son," Treville says, and licks -- 

"Not altogether *sure* on the fist thing." 

Treville licks more *slowly* --

Suggestively -- 

"I'll absolutely make it worth your while, son." 

"You uh. Like that, do you." 

Treville hums -- and kisses the space just behind Porthos's ear. "Yes. Don't you?" 

"Doing it to other people, yeah --" 

"With those big, rough hands of yours... mm. You've never been on the receiving end." 

"Uh -- no. Have *you*?" 

"Yes," Treville says, and kisses Porthos again. "Laurent. *Multiple* times." 

"Uhh..." 

Treville laughs and squeezes his beautiful *boy* -- 

"You realize I'm going to be staring at Athos's hands --" 

"Not Thomas's?" 

"-- and thinking sodding *thoughts* --" 

Treville snickers *hard* -- 

"You *arse*. You *like* that? Getting... you know." And Porthos, bless him, is blushing *furiously*. 

"Getting *bent*, son?" 

"Fuck --" 

"Getting my ashes *hauled*, son?" 

"Look --" 

"Getting fucked hard and long and *brutally* until all I can do is howl and beg and whine --" 

Porthos clenches and *croons*, panting a little -- 

Treville rumbles and strokes down and down and down... until he's *just* cupping that hip. "Does my boy need a little more? Mm?" 

"Oh -- shit --" 

"You can have it, son. All night *long* if that's what moves you --" 

"You -- *you* -- *fuck*," Porthos says, laughing hard and dragging a hand down over his face. 

Treville licks his throat again. "Tell me, son. What's on your mind..." 

"My *cock* is *confused*." 

Treville *snorts* -- 

"Yeah, laugh it up, you arse. Because I'm thinking there were *maybe* one or two or five-bloody-*dozen* times when something someone in your pack said made it so you weren't sure if you wanted to bend *over*... or *mount*." 

Treville grins -- 

"And I can *feel* that grin, and it's obnoxious beyond *belief*, and -- and. Oh." 

"*Yes*, son...?" 

"You -- want it. You want *me* that way." 

Treville kisses Porthos's ear, and his throat, and his shoulder. "Everything from you, son --" 

"Oh." 

"-- and *nothing* that *you* don't want," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's hip *firmly*. 

"Nn -- fuck. I can't think about anything but *your* cock in my arse when you do that, Daddy --" 

"Is that how you want it, son? Remember -- there's nothing you can't have of me." 

"What -- but. You already told me what you want." 

"That's right, son. The answer will never change." 

"How about... uh." 

"Anything," Treville says, and nuzzles into the soft, sweat-damp curls at the back of Porthos's neck. There are no bite-scars here, of course -- they'd healed, just as every other bit of damage Treville had done had healed or *will* heal *soon*. 

Only the first bite will scar.

Only ever that. Treville sighs and kisses, and kisses -- "*Anything*." 

Porthos moans. "Fuck, Daddy, I just -- let me think. Let me *think* about doing things the other way with you." 

"Absolutely."

"And... we can... talk about it?" 

"Did you mean for that to be a question?" 

"Yeah. I mean -- I'm asking. I don't want to -- to *tease* you or anything," Porthos says, and cups Treville's hand on his hip. 

Treville twines their fingers together and hums. "Son, I would *vastly* enjoy spending *hours* talking about sex, sexuality, our various fixations, the fixations of people we've known and loved -- well. Perhaps that's not so much of a surprise, at this point...?" 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "Right, but --" 

"But for this *particular* thing, yes. This thing which we *both* know I want, and we both know you're not *entirely* sure about. Son..." Treville kisses Porthos's throat again. "It's no hardship. More than that: It's *pleasure*. It's joy and *fun* to tease *both* of us -- sexually and *not* -- and not *only* because we both know that, no matter what, we *will* be making love in *some* way once the teasing *stops*." 

"It -- it's the way you work." 

"That's right. And I daresay we're more the same than different in *this* respect, as well." 

Porthos laughs *quietly* -- 

"Mm? Son?" 

"I did. I *did* laugh and tease with Flea, the others. When it was just too soon for something, or -- whatever." Porthos takes a breath. "It's been so long..." 

Treville squeezes his boy tight. "I know, son." 

"Yeah. Yeah, you do," Porthos says, and pushes a little closer. "But this -- all of this... we can have what we want, and what we need..." 

"We can have what we've *lost*, son. To a certain extent," Treville says, and smiles wryly.

Porthos's laugh this time is much, much better, even as he obviously looks toward the portrait of Amina, which they'd left uncovered this *entire* time --

Because his son is *exceptional* -- 

"Why the bloody hell *did* you cover it? Who *were* you fucking in here?" 

"No one, since I lost your godparents," Treville says. "It was. She hated it, son. She *loathed* it when she couldn't... cheer me up." 

"I --" 

"I couldn't stand to make her watch me weep." 

"Aw, *Daddy*!" 

Treville kisses Porthos's shoulder, and lets it linger for a little while. "She'd almost certainly punch me *viciously* for that," he says, and laughs... rustily. 

It sounds like that snort was shocked out of Porthos. "Yeah?" 

"Mm. Failures of logic were only *occasionally* acceptable, son --" 

"And failures of logic with regards to her were grounds for a beating, right, got it. Here you go," Porthos says, and elbows him a good one -- 

Treville coughs out his *air* -- 

*Laughs* out more of it -- 

"*Fuck*, I didn't think that *through*," Porthos says -- 

Treville *wheezes* -- and *shoves* his knot right back into place -- 

Porthos yelps like the hound he is -- "You *arse* --" 

"Yours, son. *Always* yours."


	11. I would like Treville to hire my personal care attendants. *thinks* But not actually train them.

The bells chimed midnight a few minutes ago, and Treville has left Porthos dozing in his suite.

When he'd checked, his terrifyingly *efficient* staff had done a damned good job of leaving the sitting room looking like someone who *isn't* a dog owns this house, and -- 

And now he's *here*, next door, in the suite he does and does *not* hope his beautiful son never actually uses. 

As suspected, Porthos's extra sets of leathers had -- somehow -- made their way across the city and into the lovely armoire that Treville had, in fact, commissioned from Strauss and Sons. So have his son's few carefully -- if not richly -- tailored doublets, trousers... hm. 

Some of these doublets and trousers are, in fact, *incredibly* richly-tailored -- 

And embroidered -- 

The *dyes* are rich -- 

Treville leans in to *sniff*... and *doesn't* smell his godsons on them anywhere in particular, which, given the fact that *he's* yet to see Porthos in the richest of these clothes -- 

And given how relatively *new* they are -- 

His son has *absolutely* been making money hand over fist with those cards and dice of his. And *those* are...

Treville lifts his nose -- 

... in the bedside table, *next* to the obligatory pot of oil. 

And *two* partially-used pots of pomade, by the scents. 

Well, Alaire clearly hopes that Porthos will feel right at home, which is a *good* thing, but... but. 

His son is going to have to have a *somewhat* straitened existence. 

Treville frowns. He has no *idea* how he's going to broach that, or the adoption...

There's a *horrible* temptation to *scruff* his son and *keep* him scruffed until such time as he's entirely moved-in *and* -- *finally* -- a de Tréville -- 

And that, of course, is when his beautiful, perfect, magnificent son snorts. 

From the doorway. 

Treville turns to smile ruefully at him -- and to enjoy the way the moonlight from the windows silvers the healthy shine of his coat. 

"My -- my bloody *what*?" 

Treville laughs *precisely* like the arsehole he is. "What woke you, mm?" 

"Not being *cuddled*, you arse. What woke *you*?" 

"I --" 

"And did you honestly think I would say *no*?" Porthos moves closer with the loose, easy stride of a man who has healed *entirely* from being fucked blind -- 

Treville makes *plans* -- 

And Porthos smacks him. 

Treville catches his hand, licks it -- and can't. 

*Can't*. 

He squeezes Porthos's hand and looks *into* his son as best he can. "Son. Tell me plain. Will you let me *have* you. Will you let me make you *mine*." 

"*Yes*, Daddy. Bloody *adopt* me. You've already sodding moved me *in* -- and when did you even give that *order*?" 

"I didn't *have* to," Treville says, and breathes around his thundering heart, his aching and *thrilled* soul -- but.

Porthos's expression is pinched. "This is like your deliciously sweaty sheets, isn't it. Some things just bloody *happen* in this house." 

"That's *right*, son," Treville says, and *looks* at Porthos. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll let me teach *you* how to collect a staff like this." 

"Right, fine, sign me up for the lessons. I'll be needing some underage girls to roll about and sweat on *my* sheets when I'm an old codger." 

"Codger -- son." 

Porthos... laughs like an arsehole.

Treville sighs. "*Next* --" 

"You want me to quit sharping? *I am happy to do it*." 

"What? Really? So easily?" 

"Daddy. The fact that I'm good at it? The fact that I take *pleasure* out of it? Does not actually change the fact that it's a hideously dangerous way to go about making money, and? A *fuck*-awful way to go about making *friends*." 

And that... will *always* be important to his warm and loving boy. He'll remember that. 

"Good. That *said*..." 

"Mm?" 

"I'm going to wreck *all* of you -- you, Thomas, Athos, your terrifying retainers, *everyone* -- when we all sit down to play for roasted hazelnuts and the like," Porthos says, and the smile on his face is sharp and sly -- 

But the one in his eyes sweet, and young, and hopeful -- 

So *hopeful* -- 

And full of the dreams of the world they're creating between them. 

"Oh... Daddy? Did you... like that?" 

And *that's* when Treville realizes that he's rumbling loudly, desperately, *helplessly* –

That the dog is *reaching* --

"I love it. I love *you*. I love everything about the world in your *eyes* -- " 

"*Oh* --" 

"-- and it's time for you to pet the dog." 

"Wha --" 

The dog -- who, while still *very* drunk, has regained a great deal of initiative -- *hauls* them through the shift -- and pounces on THEIR GOOD BOY!

"Shit! Hello!" 

The dog wags and wags and licks and licks and -- wait. There are better ways to do this!

"Uh. Are there?"

Yes, good boy!

"All right --" 

The dog jumps back down and *herds* the good boy, HIS good boy, his PORTHOS!

"Uhh..." 

He herds and pushes and nips -- little! Just little! -- until they're back in their den, with all the good smells -- 

And PORTHOS laughs! Laughs BIG! And he had been doing that all day, all night, but now that the dog is here -- 

Now that the dog is out -- 

It's bigger. 

Better. 

The dog nips and pushes and *shoves* PORTHOS -- 

Laughing good boy PORTHOS! 

\-- until he is back on the bed. And then he curls, just so, resting his head and one paw on PORTHOS'S good chest. 

"So um. Cuddle? Now?" 

The dog grins. They have the best good boy!

PORTHOS'S laugh, this time, is rumbling and pleased. "Happy to oblige," he says, and scratches -- nice! NICE! -- behind the dog's ears. 

The dog rumbles with his good PORTHOS, and settles. 

end.


End file.
